Resistance
by NinjaMatty
Summary: AU-ish - Ned/Fem!Can - Sometime during a ten-year war, siblings Alfred and Mathilda find a wounded soldier buried underneath a pile of dead bodies. They take him back to their camp on a whim. Little do they know that they might have found the key to stop the war.
1. Compassion Crowns the Soul With Its True

_Please keep in mind while reading that English is not my first language and that nobody proofread this text._

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><strong>Compassion Crowns the Soul With Its Truest Victory<strong>

She hadn't expected to see such carnage. She knew there had been a mighty battle fought on this field, yet knowing and seeing were two different things. Her stomach lurched and had she not clenched her teeth, she would have thrown up on her brand new leather boots. Something must have shown on her face, because her brother looked at her worriedly. She tried to school her expression, but it was hard. She bet her skin had turned an unattractive greenish colour.

The field that had once been covered in grass and colourful flowers had turned to mud. Countless of bodies laid in the mire, most of them so disfigured it was hard to believe they had once been humans. The stench of blood and death-loosen bowels was almost overpowering. Already, the crows were blackening the sky like one giant cloud announcing death.

They trudged the killing ground carefully, trying not to stomp on some body parts. It was almost a lost cause. Canons had blasted off limbs everywhere. There seemed to be no whole bodies in that particular corner of the field. She saw blood, entrails, guts and skin, but it felt as if she couldn't get the whole picture. These fragments didn't meet to make a human being in her mind, and she was kind of grateful to it. She probably would have thrown up despite her best efforts or, God forbids, fainted. She shivered from head to toe and hugged her jacket closer to her body. The weather was fairly warm, yet she felt cold all over.

She had no idea how long they walked ankle-deep in gore before they found one person still alive. Her brother saw a twitch in a pile of bodies, and they found a man underneath, covered in blood but still breathing. He must have been shielded from the last attack by those dead bodies. Yet his breathing was laboured and wheezy and it was hard to tell if the blood on him was his or someone else's.

They flipped him on his back and she bent over, checking for a pulse. It was there, faint but stubborn. She checked the man over rapidly, assessing the visible wounds. His clothes were torn, revealing some bruises and scratches, but nothing life-threatening. The only worrying wound was a gash above the man's right eye some three or four inches long. It covered the right side of his face in a horrible crimson mask and marred his light brown hair.

''He's still alive. We have to take him back with us to heal him.''

''Mathilda, he's an enemy. We can't nurse our enemies...!''

''Don't be like that, Alfred,'' she snapped, violet eyes hardening. ''His countrymen have been massacred for no reason. Don't you think it would be even more damning to our soul to let him die here?''

Alfred snarled and crossed his arms. Mathilda could see her brother wanted to argue but didn't dare to. Finally, Alfred heaved a sigh and crouched beside the wounded man. ''Fine, we'll carry him back to our encampment. But you will care for him. He'll be your responsibility. Understood?''

Mathilda nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. ''Understood.''

Carrying an unresponsive body however was easier said than done. The wounded man was tall and big, taller and bigger than the two siblings attempting to drag him out of the blood bath. Since he was unconscious, he couldn't help at all by trying to keep his footing or tightening his hold around their neck. Alfred suggested more than once that they just abandon the deadweight amongst his peers, but Mathilda stubbornly refused to. She was rarely hard-headed and would usually yield easily, but right now she seemed quite stubborn about this wounded stranger. Was she feeling guilt about the whole massacre? She shouldn't, really. Mathilda wasn't a fighter; she was a healer. She'd never killed anything bigger than a spider in her whole life. Perhaps the whole fighting was starting to take its toll on her however and that she'd feel better about at least rescuing one poor wounded bastard.

With much huffing and puffing, they finally managed to drag the wounded man back to their camp. The sentries standing on each side of the large door of the wooden palisade looked startled at seeing them more or less carrying what appeared to be a dead body; a dead body wearing the enemy livery furthermore. Both blond young people were covered in gore from boots to belt after trudging on the killing field for so long. They smelled of death, emptied bowels and blood. Their faces were pale in light of the recent killing.

Of course, being who they are, nobody stopped them. All soldiers, healers, camp followers they met stared at them with wide eyes. The medical tent was unfortunately situated at the other side of the camp, forcing them to carry the body through ranks upon ranks of their soldiers. Speculations erupted as soon as they were out of earshot, everybody wondering what was happening and why an enemy soldier was being brought in. Nobody had heard they were to take prisoners.

Finally, the greyish canvas of the medical tent appeared at the end of a muddy path. By then, they were both sweating and grunting under the deadweight of the wounded man. Alfred felt all his small aches and pains reawakened and he mourned the wasted time that could have been used to bathe in warm water. He knew better than to voice his annoyance however. Mathilda might not be a soldier like him, but she had infinite amount of energy when it came to healing the wounded and she never complained about having to spend the whole night up by the bedside of a dying man.

The flap of the tent was opened for them by a wide-eyed soldier who stood sentry. As soon as they stepped inside, their nostrils were assaulted by the smell of blood and unwashed bodies. In this tent alone perhaps one hundred wounded soldiers laid on narrow cots, some dying, some already dead while a healer's back was turned, some recuperating after a sustained injury. Amongst the neat lines of beds the healers worked tirelessly. Helpers – mostly scared-looking children – carried rolls of bandages, basins of clean water and glass bottles of alcohol and poppy wine.

The wounded man was carried by the two siblings to an empty cot at the end of the last line of beds. It stood near the oily canvas wall that flapped gently in the breeze. Here, the air smelled just a tiny less like death and a bit more like damp earth. With some effort, they lowered the man to the cot. The big body looked too large for such a narrow pallet.

Alfred straightened with a groan. He pressed his fists on the small of his back. The large sword in its scabbard belted to his side clanked noisily against the wooden leg of the cot. He barely registered it.

"So, are you going to be alright with an enemy soldier in your tent?" he asked his younger sister with something akin to worry in his voice.

"Of course," Mathilda answered distractedly. She was already at work, checking the man over for other wounds than the one on his forehead. "He's going to be far too weak to be any trouble."

"But what of when he grows stronger?"

The younger of the two sighed and looked up at her brother with some exasperation mingled with deep respect in her purple eyes. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Alfred. I won't have this man shackled to his bed in fear he might get up to try to strangle someone."

Despite everything, Alfred couldn't stop a smile tugging the corners of his lips upwards. He patted his sister on the back. "Dear Mattie, always so nice to broken people!" Still smiling, he scratched at his straw-coloured hair before shrugging. "Alright then, I'll trust you on this one. I have to go now. Gotta report on what we saw there anyway." His blue eyes hardened ever so slightly. "But if this bastard gives you any troubles, I'll see my sword sheathed through his throat."

Mathilda opened her mouth to say something, but Alfred was already turning his back. She watched her older brother walk out of the tent, head raised high and broad shoulders stiff with pride. Dear Alfred, always looking out for her like a mother hen. Mathilda's smile couldn't be kept at bay even if she had wanted it to. Nineteen years of this, and it still made her feel ridiculously warm on the inside to know her older brother cared so much for her.

The quiet buzzing of her surroundings finally managed to bring her back to reality. She stared for a second or two at the wounded man lying on the cot in front of her. The enemy solider hadn't move an inch, still unconscious probably due to the blow received to the forehead.

Mathilda sighed and removed her coat. Despite the cold outside, the inside of the tent was warmed by many packed bodies. In a few minutes of working she'd probably be sweating too. Yet she wished nonetheless for the more comforting warmth of a wood fire. It would be better for the wounded too; it would chase away the humidity. A lot of soldiers, especially the older ones, had been complaining of stiff joints after spending a few days in the medical tent. Sadly, there was very little she could do for them except have them rub their aching joints with warm alcohol.

She began working, pushing her thoughts at the back of her mind. Her hands worked precisely and gently. She hated those healers who were brisk with the unconscious patients because they couldn't feel pain. First of all, with a pair of sharp scissors, she cut the wounded man's clothes so they could more easily be removed. It wasn't an easy task; the man wore thick clothes due to the cold and some parts of them were hardening with drying blood. She cut through the coat sleeves from wrist to shoulder and pulled on the torn fabric to remove it. It was of good quality, she noticed absentmindedly, the kind of material no ordinary soldier could afford. She put it aside in case it might be salvaged later on. Under the brown coat the clothes were covered in blood. Fresh blood. There was a gash on the right thigh, perhaps five inches long but not deep enough to have severed the artery. Other such gashes were found all over the man's body. None were life threatening, but the blood had to be staunched rapidly.

The most serious wound was the one the man had sustained on the forehead. Blood still trickled from it in a thin rivulet, coating the right side of the face a light red. The pillow in its white pillowcase was already stained with it. Mathilda waved to one of the kid helpers. The boy came running eagerly and listened to the orders given. With a bow, he departed to fetch the needed items. Mathilda had a few seconds to breathe. The air in the tent was disgustingly humid and warm. She was already sweating underneath her clothes and her blond hair stuck to her cheeks and forehead. She wiped it away from her brow as best she could with the back of her forearm, keeping her bloody fingers away from her face. Was it just her imagination or had the man stirred ever so slightly? For a panicky second, Mathilda wished her patient would remain unconscious. The words of warning her brother had said came back to mind and quite suddenly she realised that having brought an enemy soldier in the medical tent might not have been the smartest thing she had done. Then she looked at the man, really looked at him; taking in his injuries, the paleness of his skin, the slackness of his body, and decided that enemy or not, wounded people had to be seen to. Alfred would scoff at that, they all would scoff at that and call her a big softie, but there was no way she could simply turn a wounded man away. She had sworn vows of taking care of the wounded and the sick. Nowhere it that long speech she had learned by heart had it been mentioned that some people should be denied physicking.

The boy came back with the required items, snapping Mathilda out of her reverie. The objects were placed upon a small wooden table and the boy was sent to help someone else. Mathilda then took a white rag, dipped it in the copper basin of lukewarm water, wrung it, then proceeded to gently clean the wound on the man's forehead. The blood had not yet dried and was easily washed away. She then put the now-stained rag in the water which turned almost immediately a pinkish colour. She leaned in closer to the patient to examine the wound. As she had first feared, this one would need stitches. Better hurry while the man was still unconscious. With a new clean rag, she cleaned the wound a second time but with warm alcohol. The man didn't even twitch, but his breathing seemed a tiny bit more laboured. Mathilda put the foul-smelling rag away and picked up a semicircular needle with a silk suture already threaded through it. With a sure hand, she started working on a simple interrupted stitch. It was the easiest and the most secure for this type of wound and would most likely leave a smaller scar than any other types of stitching.

Once the stitching was done, it was only a matter of cleaning the rest of the wounds on the soldier. As she did, Mathilda tried to imagine how he must have gotten those. Clearly, he must have been hit only by debris since the wounds were quite insignificant. The other bodies she had seen on the field had been torn to bloody pieces. Something – or maybe someone – must have shielded this man from the worst of the explosion.

Once all the wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, Mathilda took a few steps back to eye critically her work. The man would live, that was certain, unless there was some undetectable interior wound. She doubted it. Already the enemy soldier's skin was regaining some colour due to the stopping of the blood loss (and also probably due to the stupid heat of the tent). It was too early to tell if infection might have seeped into one of the wounds however. Someone would have to keep a close eye on the man for the next twenty-four hours.

Satisfied with her work, Mathilda took the folded light blanket from the foot of the narrow cot, unfolded it with a shake and covered the man with it. It was mostly for decency's sake really; most of the man's clothes had been cut away, leaving him only in his undershirt and undergarments. Now, time and rest would finish the job. Perhaps a bit of poppy wine at the beginning of the recovery to ease the pain. Judging from the wound to the forehead, the man will most likely suffer from severe headaches for a long time, or even all his life.

There was nothing more to do at the moment but fill the ledger keeping track of the wounded people brought in. It was a tedious affair but it had to be done. Every inch of suture, every needle, every rag, every roll of bandages, every copper basin, had to be counted. Each patient's name had to be written down alongside their ailments, their wounds and the remedies provided. Everything had to balance out at the end of the month so only the exact number of needed supplies could be provided. With their funds running so low, most of the remaining money had to be directed towards the soldiers and the fighting force. A huge sum had to be taken for food for humans and beasts. Uniforms and canvas tents had to be mended or replaced. Only then, when everything else had been resupplied were medical team's needs looked at. There had been entire months when they couldn't get the needed supply and had to tear bed sheets and old uniforms to turn them into bandages. Amongst the wounded soldiers, only those sure to be able to go back to the battlefield in a short while got good food. The others had to struggle on with what was left even if the weakest of them needed the best food possible in hope to mend.

Mathilda shook her head slightly, knowing these depressing thoughts would lead her nowhere. They had made due with what they were given so far, and they could continue. Mathilda was happy enough to use her own money to buy the supplies they needed anyway, and she was pretty sure what she had left of coins could see them through another year. After that, well… after that she'd have to find a new way to fund the medical team. She'd think of something, she always did.

Right, so now she had to fill the ledger. This paused a problem, she realised with mounting anxiety. Allied soldiers were mostly all known by their names by someone else in the army and so could be identified. The man Alfred and she had just brought in was known to nobody. He was still unconscious so Mathilda couldn't ask for a name.

As if they had a mind of their own, her eyes were attracted to a piece of fabric lying on the ground. She took it up, and she realised it was the brown jacket the man had worn when he had been found amongst the pile of bodies. Blood spots covered it, it was frayed despite its good quality and the hem was full of holes. There were some kind of insignias on the shoulders of the jacket, but Mathilda had no idea what they meant. Were they some kind of indicators of a rank? Maybe. Steeling her nerves, she slipped one hand into one of the pockets of the jacket. Her groping fingers found nothing but dust. The other pockets got the same treatment. She found a half empty pack of foreign cigarettes. She could read the letters on it but couldn't understand the meaning of the words. There was also a book of matches with two matches remaining. She had heard of these weird objects but it was the first time she saw them with her own eyes. Apparently, fire appeared when one of the matches was struck against something rough. It was hardly believable; the match was thinner and shorter than her pinky finger. How could something so small make fire? Nonetheless, she put it into the pocket of her trousers for later observation. Finally, in the last inside pocket of the coat she found a piece of folded paper. The paper was rough and thick beneath her fingers and there was a ring of blood on the upper left side of it. The blood, dried, had turned a dark brownish colour. She let the jacket fall back down beside the cot and carefully unfolded the piece of paper. It seemed to be some kind of letter written in the same weird language that was on the pack of cigarettes. She squinted at the words as if narrowing her eyes would provide her with the necessary knowledge to understand them. It did nothing of the sort, sadly. She could go to a translator, of course, but she felt that spreading the news that an enemy soldier was lying unconscious in the medical tent wasn't such a good idea. Knowing the cruelty of men, she didn't doubt that one soldier or another would have no qualms about walking into the tent and killing an unarmed enemy soldier just for wearing the wrong colour of jacket. She frowned at the letter. This was a letter, she was sure of it. She could see a date written in an elegant feminine hand at the top right corner. The numbers were understandable. It was dated almost three months ago. So, if these people followed the same writing code, it meant that the second line should mention the name of the addressee. It read: geacht Klaas. Urgh, that didn't tell her much. Could it be translated as 'dear Klaas'? It sounded a bit like that. But was Klaas a name though? If so, it sounded oddly like the word 'class'.

She sighed. Whatever, the man would be registered under the name Klaas even if it wasn't a real first name. It sounded quite foreign, but a lot of their soldiers were from the colonies or even from foreign countries. She doubted someone would ask about this particular one just because of his weird-sounding name.

Mathilda folded back the letter before slipping it underneath the wounded man's pillow. It wouldn't do for it to be discovered after all. Her business done here for the moment, she gathered the objects she had needed to tidy them away and to fill the ledger on her way out.


	2. I Was Raised an Only Child and So Was My

Sorry for the long delay before posting this chapter. I had first planned to update this story once a week, but I'm not sure I'll be able to. Thank you to everybody who has taken the time to read the first chapter! I appreciate it a lot!

I hope you enjoy this new chapter.

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><strong>I Was Raised an Only Child and So Was My Brother<strong>

"I hate the rain…" Alfred muttered. His back rested against the wooden pole holding up the canvas of his own tent. There was a flap of it above his head protecting him from the rain without hindering his view of this outside world. He had a lit cigarette dangling between his lips and its acrid smoke swirled in the still air. "If it doesn't stop soon, it will slow our progress."

Standing beside her brother, hugging her jacket closer to her body to ward off the chill, Mathilda sighed. "Progress? Are we to leave soon?"

The man shrugged before breathing in the smoke of his cigarette. "It feels like it. Father says we're almost at the capital. He thinks the legion we just destroyed was the last one posted before it."

"Are you sure? I really doubt the Dutch king would leave his capital undefended."

"That's what I told the old man, but you know he doesn't listen. We're to press forward as soon as we've replenished our supplies. In a fortnight I'd say."

"Replenish our supplies…" Mathilda muttered bitterly. "He means robbing the poor villages around."

Alfred grinned. "What? Do you think he'd waste one of his precious coins if he can steal what's needed?"

"That doesn't make it right."

"I never said it did. You know I don't agree with his way of dealing with things, but there's nothing I can do about it." A pause. "He asked after you."

Immediately, as soon as she heard these words, Mathilda couldn't stop a shiver of fear. She hid it with a shrug. Had her father somehow learned about the enemy soldier resting in the medical tent and brought in because of her? That didn't seem likely. What were the odds, really? Mathilda had left the tent before midday and it was now after supper with the sun setting. There wasn't enough time for her father to go through all the ledgers his men had to record everything in (because he did go through them all somehow). The ledgers about the weapons and the food were far more important than the medical one. Had maybe her father inquired about his daughter to one of the other healers, and the healer had pointed out that weird stranger with the cut on his forehead?

"Why?" Mathilda finally managed to ask, throat dry. "Father never asks after me."

"You're his favourite and you know it. Yeah, he was kind of butthurt that you didn't choose the way of the sword like he wanted, but he's getting over it."

"That's not true. He's still angry about that. He says I've deprived the army of a good swordsman because of my foolish choice."

"That's _true_, I'm sure you would have been a good swordsman. However, he's angrier with me because I haven't gotten myself killed yet." Alfred grinned recklessly. "He can't believe his bastard is that tough."

The younger of the two siblings smiled slightly. "Well, I'm very glad that you are that tough, Alfred. Now, what did father want?"

"I'm not sure, to be honest. He asked the weirdest questions. Like if you looked like your mother or something. If the bastard deigned looking at you, he'd know it by himself."

"If I look like my mother?" Mathilda repeated, dumbfounded. "What kind of question is that?"

"Hey, don't ask, I don't know. I think you do, and that's what I told him. Then he switched the subject." Alfred leaned closer, his breath smelling of tobacco. "I'm pretty sure he's going nuts though." His light blue eyes glinted in the growing darkness. "And once it happens, I'll strike him down and stop this fucking war."

This time, Mathilda couldn't hide her shiver with a shrug. Alfred had just said something she had been praying for for the last ten years of her life. She just wanted their father to die so the war could be stopped. Otherwise, it would go on forever until the old man had conquered all the kingdoms of the continent. There was no stopping him otherwise. Not even old age had managed to slow him down a bit. He could still ride, fight and think like a much younger man. His commanding officers had been with him since the very beginning and were loyal to a fault. Nobody dared talk against the emperor because nobody was safe from an accusation of treason. Not even his children, especially not his children, could question his decisions. Alfred had tried many times and it was a small miracle that he still had his head attached to his shoulders.

"Don't speak like that," Mathilda murmured very softly, afraid to be overheard.

"I won't be able to stand that much longer," the older of the two admitted with gritted teeth. "All this senseless killing, it's making me sick."

Mathilda looked at her brother out the corner of her eye. Alfred had never been very sensitive, but he had never revelled in the killing of innocents. He was a very good fighter, but he longed for his skills to be of used against other skilled swordsmen, not against unarmed peasants. Mathilda reached out and gently put a hand on his shoulder.

"I know, I understand. Be strong, brother. I'm sure this will end sooner or later."

In the half dark, Alfred's face was difficult to read but his tense body was enough to reveal what he thought: he didn't think this would end soon. Something about the resolute set of his jaw indicated that he was sure he'd have to live like a slayer of innocents for the rest of his life. It broke Mathilda's heart to see her confident big brother so perturbed.

"Get a good night's sleep," the healer advised gently. "It will do you good and on the morrow your thoughts will be less dark."

"Yeah, or maybe I'll drink myself into a stupor so I won't have nightmares."

There was very little to add to that statement. Almost all soldiers drank themselves to sleep, especially after a hard battle. Liquor apparently blocked the bad dreams. Mathilda nodded, knowing it would be selfish to prevent her brother from doing the same. Not that it was safe to allow a soldier to be drunk; what if the camp was attacked? But right now, that seemed improbable. There were sentries, a ditch and a palisade protecting the camp after all.

"Good night, brother," she said softly before leaving the relative comfort of Alfred's tent.

Outside, the sun had almost completely set. The clouds of rain were being blown away by the rising wind. Winter was coming, Mathilda thought as she hugged his jacket closer to her body. She hated the winter campaigns where everybody was cold, miserable and sick. The marching was hard, the nights were painful and the fighting was agony. Sentries sometimes died of cold standing on their feet because they weren't allowed to light fires to keep them a bit warm. Toes froze in boots and fingers froze in gloves and had to be cut off. Noses ran, throats were sore, chests burned. The piling snow made it difficult to advance. Snow made everything difficult actually, even going from one's tent to the latrines.

As she walked, Mathilda looked up towards the clearing sky. The rain had mercifully stopped for the moment. Small white dots started to wink here and there against dark indigo. She recalled, with a bit of difficulty, how she had loved the winter when she had been young, before the war started ten years ago. She remembered how Alfred and she and the other children of the family had run about in the gardens filled with snow. Then war had been declared. The games had stopped. Children had been handed swords and had been required to become adults. Alfred had been twelve the first time he joined the foot soldiers. Mathilda had been deemed yet too young to be on the battlefield. At nine, she had been made to stay in the camp while her brother and his friends waged war against seasoned soldiers. When everything had been over, when the cries of wounded men and the clash of arms had stopped, she had helped the healers the best she could to patch up their soldiers. Never could she forget the haunted look she had seen in their eyes as she clumsily wrapped bandages around their wounds. _Never,_ she had sworn in her head, _never will I have that look in my eyes. Never will I take a life._

So far so good.

She hurried back to the medical tent, intending to have a look at her mysterious patient before retiring to her own tent for the night. She felt exhausted after trudging through the killing ground this morning, more mentally fatigued than physically but still she longed for the relative comfort of her own cot. The men and women she walked by nodded respectfully at her, but they didn't quite dare to talk to her. She was the emperor's daughter. What if she was as mad and as short-tempered as her father after all? The younger people thought that while the older ones had known her since she was a child and knew she didn't have an ounce of malice in her. She didn't mind, really. She didn't want to mingle with them. She was shy and she preferred the company of the people she knew.

Inside the medical tent, most of the healers had retired for the night. Three remained and would spend the night here in case one of the wounded men's conditions worsened or in case of an emergency. It was always the youngest healers stuck with the night watch, and Mathilda had spent more than one night up with the wounded. She kind of liked it; she liked the calm and peaceful atmosphere. She felt useful and needed when a man woke in the night, complaining about pain or simply asking for a glass of water.

Mathilda nodded to the two young men and one young woman who had been stuck with the night watch. She didn't know the men, but the woman had been a healer as long as she had been. Michelle was her name; she was dark skinned with black eyes and black long hair. She was sweet, kind, and patient. She knew when to be kind and when to be firm. She smiled at her but remained seated at her tiny wooden desk, filling her own ledger for the day. She feared the emperor more than she feared the enemy soldiers and spent hours filling her ledger before filling the official one that was given to the emperor for his inspection. She was terrified to make a mistake that would cost her her position or even her head. Mathilda smiled back before walking to the end of the last row of cots to see her patient.

The man was either unconscious or sleeping, it was hard to tell, but Mathilda guessed Michelle would have told her if something had happened with his patient. Could someone stay unconscious for so long anyway? With a blow to the head, it was hard to tell. Maybe the man had been paralysed or even plunged into a coma from which he'd never emerge. Mathilda sat on the small wood stool that stood beside the cot. She decided to spend some time here before going back to her own tent. Sleep would elude her at the moment she was sure of it. She still felt too strung up after her discussion with Alfred.

She had no idea how long she sat there. She must have dozed off sitting up (one got used to do such thing while spending the whole night up) because she startled awake. Her eyes scanned the tent but everything looked normal enough. The three healers were still sitting by their desk, reading or working or sleeping sitting up. All the patients appeared to be asleep, either naturally or drugged to ward off the pain.

Something grabbed her wrist. Mathilda jumped and a startled squeak escaped from her lips. She looked down to see a grubby hand holding her wrist. Wide eyed, she looked at her patient. The man – Klaas – was staring back at her with intent hazel eyes. His expression was hard to read; something between anger, pain and panic. The grip on Mathilda's arm tightened slightly, but the hand was too weak to be painful.

"H-hello," Mathilda began softly. "Please, don't worry. You're safe. You've been wounded, but we brought you back here. Do you remember anything?"

The man looked startled, as if he hadn't expected Mathilda to be capable of speech. He took back his hand as if he had been burnt. He looked around the tent, his eyes wide. His already pale face seemed to pale further. His whole body tensed. He sat up on his cot, wincing because of the pain but intent on his purpose.

"Lay back! You're too weak to sit up." But the man wasn't listening. Mathilda got to her feet, ready to stop her patient if he tried to get up. Cleary, the enemy soldier was panicking, probably wondering where he was. He knew that he wasn't amongst friends though, that could be read all over his face. Mathilda hesitated. "Klaas," she said, pronouncing the foreign name as best she could, "calm down."

Klaas looked up at her, surprised anew that this stranger would know his name. It seemed to soothe him a little. His broad shoulders sagged, but his eyes remained alert nonetheless.

"Where am I?"

This time, it was Mathilda's turn to be startled. "Y-you speak English?" she asked stupidly.

"Yes. Where am I?"

"In the medical tent in the emperor's camp. We do not wish to hurt you. You're not a prisoner, I promise."

She had no idea what triggered him, really. One second she was talking, the next he was on his feet, looming above her. His fists were clenched, his face was pale but his eyes shone with something like fear, his jaw was set and he was reaching for his belt. Mathilda knew instantly what he was reaching for; his sword. There was no sword at his belt of course, and it seemed to surprise him. However, Klaas didn't seem like the type of man to be deterred by such setbacks. He drew back his hand and would have punched her right on the nose if the three other healers hadn't jumped on him. They crashed atop the cheap cot that seemed to explode on impact. The two men struggled with the wounded one to pin him down while Michelle grabbed the man's hair, pulled on it to twist his head back and decanted the content of a small tumbler into his mouth. All the while, the man was struggling. For someone who had been unconscious so long and who had bled a copious amount of vital blood, he was still strong and nearly managed to shrug off the two healers holding him down.

All the while, Mathilda remained seated on her small stool, eyes wide in surprise and horror. She barely realised that she had nearly been punched in the face, and considering this man's strength, her nose would have been broken and a few teeth would have gone down her throat.

"C-careful with him!" was all she managed to say.

The poppy wine slipped between the man's teeth finally started to take effect. He slumped against the wooden remains of his cot, not quite unconscious yet. His muscles unknotted and he lay limp. The three healers got to their feet, sweating and looking confused by the turn of events. As one, they turned to Mathilda, seeking an explanation.

She had to lie. She couldn't sell this man out right now. "He was confused and thought he had been killed. I believe the shock of realising he was still alive was too much. He just needs a good night's sleep."

This was a common occurrence. Soldiers who had been wounded and left unconscious for a long while often woke up confused and scared, having been sure at the back of their mind that they had been done for. They rarely got up to punch a healer however, but they sometimes displayed aggressive behaviour. And so, the healers accepted her feeble explanation. Together, they found a cot to replace the one that had been destroyed by the fight. They laid the wounded soldier back on it carefully, mindful of his injuries. Klaas wasn't exactly passed out yet. He mumbled inaudibly under his breath, and Mathilda feared that he would say something in his weird tongue that would set off the healers. Luckily for the both of them, he kept his mumblings too low for anybody to hear.

Once everything was back in order, Michelle and the two other healers went back to their post. Mathilda knew however that they would keep a watchful eye on this patient should he wake up in a panic again. What if he tried to punch one of them then? Or what if he spoke in his weird tongue? Everybody had heard Dutch and they would recognize it right away (unless they thought it was German, which wouldn't be any better). She sighed and rubbed her face with her fingers, trying to think. The nearly-getting-punched-in-the-face event seemed to have drained the remainder of her energy. She wanted to crawl into her bed and sleep until the war was over. But if she succumbed to her laziness, her patient's life could be in danger.

She looked at the man – Klaas. His eyes were half shut, made hazy but the opiate that had been slipped down his throat. In a matter of minutes, he would fall asleep. But right now, his eyes were fixed on the canvas roof of the tent. In the candle light, it was hard to read his expression but he looked dispirited, as if he had given up. And who could blame him, really? He had just awakened in a tent situated in the middle of his enemy's camp, surrounded by enemy healers, only to be drugged. Mathilda found she could easily guess what he was thinking; that they'd probably kill him in his sleep to send him to one of these doctors who cut bodies open to look at their insides. (It had been a legend going around amongst enemy soldiers and one of the few that were sadly right.) Was it why he was fighting off the drug so fiercely? Was he afraid that if he fell asleep, he'd never awake again? Mathilda hated these horrible thoughts and hated even more to think of how frightened the poor soldier must feel.

And so, she leaned towards him and adjusted the blanket gently over his chest, mindful of his wounds. His eyes left the roof of the tent to slide sideways towards her. She smiled her best winsome smile.

"Everything will be alright," she said very gently. "Do not worry. Sleep, and in the morning you will feel better."

She didn't know if it were her words or the drug having an effect, but Klaas fell asleep promptly right after. She eased a heavy sigh of relief as her shoulders sagged. Don't slouch so much, her governess used to say and it seemed she could still hear the old woman's voice clearly. Nonetheless, keeping her back straight was too much of a hard work and she kept on slouching. She knew now that she couldn't simply leave the tent for the night. She didn't want her patient waking up again to make a scene. It was better for him to lay low and try to be inconspicuous. Punching healers in the face would be the opposite of inconspicuousness so she had to stay.


	3. Without Fear There Cannot Be Courage

_Sorry for the very long delay between updates. I really have no excuses beside being utterly lazy and working on too many stories at the same time._

_Enjoy this chapter!_

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><strong>Without Fear There Cannot Be Courage<strong>

The enemy soldier woke again sometimes in the small hours of the morning. Mathilda had tried to get some sleep sitting up, but her mind wouldn't let her rest. She kept fretting about what would happen if her patient woke up while she was not awake to deal with him. She nodded off a few times however, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. She hated when it happened; she always had weird dreams mingled with what her not quite asleep senses could still pick up in the real world. Alfred had told her it was usually how soldiers slept; not completely asleep to be alert but not completely awake to rest for a while.

She wasn't in that state when her patient woke up though. She had been studying the far off canvas wall of the other side of the tent, letting her mind wander as her eyes followed the creases of the greyish fabric. Maybe it was the kind of sixth sense good healers honed over the years, but she felt more than she knew the enemy soldier was awake. She looked down at him lying unmoving on his cot, and even though his eyes were still closed, she knew he was no longer sleeping. She hesitated for a moment, holding her breath while trying to decide what to do. Should she speak to him right away or wait until he did something? Maybe it would be better to anticipate to avoid a repeat of the earlier scene.

Once again, Mathilda leaned forward towards her patient. "I know you're awake. I told you you'd be safe."

There was no answer for a very long time, and she started to think that she might have imagined it all. Then, the man opened his eyes. He looked around with calmness this time before his gaze settled on her. She smiled, trying to hide her nervousness.

"Welcome back, sir. How are you feeling?"

"Shitty," he muttered drowsily. He raised one of his hands to his forehead and gingerly touched the thick bandage there with the tips of his fingers. He winced. "What happened to me?"

"I wasn't there so I can't know for sure, but I'll tell you what I'm certain of. There was a fight. The Dutch army fought against the Imperial one. Your side… lost. There were blasts from our cannons that ensured our victory. My brother and I visited the site afterwards and we found you amongst the bodies. We brought you back to treat your injuries."

As if all what Mathilda had just said didn't register, the man's frown deepened. "You called me by my name earlier. How did you know my name?"

She was a bit taken aback by the abrupt change of subject but she went along with it gladly, not liking to talk about the killing field she had visited with Alfred yesterday. "There was a letter in your pocket. It was addressed to a man called 'Klaas' so I suspected it was your name. Were my assumptions correct?"

The man nodded. "Yeah, that's my name. Where's the letter though?" He added the last part briskly and made an attempt to try to get up.

"I've slipped it under your pillow so it wouldn't be found. It is written in Dutch I believe, so if it's found, everybody is going to know you are an enemy."

As if to confirm it, Klaas groped under his pillow to find the letter. It was there, of course, and the touch of it appeared to soothe him. "Why did you take me here if being found as an enemy soldier is such a bad thing?"

Mathilda hesitated before shrugging. "I'm a healer. I don't believe in sides. Wounded people should be nursed be they enemies or allies."

He looked at her with some measurement of ill-concealed surprise in his eyes. "What are you going to do with me then? Let me go?"

"No, not yet. You're not strong enough and anyway, it is impossible to leave the camp unnoticed. You would be recaptured immediately and… well… if not killed on the spot, I don't dare think what fate could befall you."

To her surprise, he chuckled. It wasn't an amused chuckle, but the kind of laughter one does when one's horrible suspicions are confirmed. "I'd be tortured."

Ridiculously, some patriotic part of her wanted to deny that. She knew however that she'd be lying only to comfort herself, not him. She sighed. "I'm afraid so. It means it is better for you to remain here for the moment." She hardened her voice slightly. "It also means no more trying to punch me in the face. You have to remain unnoticed."

"I'd rather punch you in the face, you imperialist scum."

Klaas had a harsh accent that made his words sound even harsher. Mathilda stared at him for a second, flabbergasted to be talked to that way. At the back of her mind, she knew she was being prissy, yet nobody had ever dare talk to her like that. It wasn't only due as her status of being daughter to the emperor, but also because she was a healer and because those who knew her knew she was kind. Kind people usually don't get treated that way, right?

She didn't know what to say, so instead of talking she sighed. "My name is Mathilda. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. If you want to run about camp, get yourself arrested and tortured, I know there is nothing I can do about it. But I'd rather not see the man I just saved getting killed."

He stayed silent for a long while, brooding over what she just said. She wondered what was going through that bruised head of his, but she kept silent. She suddenly felt tired and, in her tiredness, she just wanted this man to faint again so she could go to bed.

"Fine, then. I'll keep a low profile," Klaas said, face all pinched as if he had bitten in something sour. "How long will I have to stay here?"

"I'd say you have to stay put for at least a week to make sure your skull wasn't cracked by the blow you received to the head. Then, I want to know if you have headaches or if you are dizzy. It could mean concussion."

He sighed, looking tired and pale and worn out. He ran a hand through his pale brown hair. "Alright. After that, I need to leave."

Mathilda thought back about what Alfred had told her last evening. They were to march on the Dutch capital in a fortnight. There was no telling how long or how fierce the battle would be. There was no telling what would happen to the surviving Dutchmen once it was all over.

"Why are you in such a hurry to leave?" she asked, trying to come up with a reason for the man not to leave just to get murdered during the attack on his capital.

He frowned at her. "I want to go back to my people, first of all. Second, I need to organize the defence of Amsterdam." He narrowed his eyes and his lips peeled back in a toothy smirk. "I can't let you bloody savages take my capital."

Ridiculously, she wanted to reach out and slap him in the face. This reaction appalled her; she had never been violent. The thought of hurting someone – especially a patient! – had never crossed her mind. But now here was this Dutchman, grinning at her with his stupid white teeth and his feral expression. Her face burned and she sat up straighter.

"We are not savages," Mathilda said, although the images of yesterday's carnage played again in her mind. "At least not all of us are."

Klaas scoffed. He coughed. Then he scoffed again to make sure his point had been made. "Yeah, I bet babies in their cradles are taught to bash in heads with their milk bottles."

Her face reddened further, and she wasn't sure if it was either out of shame or out of anger. She couldn't understand these emotions for she had never been subjected to them. She knew however that reacting this way was foolish; this man wasn't far from the truth. Well, babies weren't taught how to use their milk bottles as weapons, but at five they were handed their first wood sword and assigned to a master swordsman to see which one of them had any potential. But Mathilda would be damned before she admitted such a thing.

"They are not," she retorted primly. "You know nothing of our people so please stop your ignorant bluster. If we were such savages, don't you think I would have killed you instead of bandaging your wounds?"

He shrugged. "Hey, there's no telling that you won't poison me or cut me open to see what my insides look like."

"I won't! I might drug you again to send you back to sleep though!"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Do so; make sure I stay drugged for a week then let me go."

"That wouldn't serve any purpose and it would be unethical." Mathilda took in a deep breath to calm herself. "Now that you are awake though, there are some questions I have to ask. I have to keep a ledger on the treatment of patients and the name's patient has to be written down. So far I only have your first name. If you would be so kind as to give me your last name…?"

Klaas stayed silent for a short while, and Mathilda started to wonder if he had understood what she just said. She had to remember that English wasn't his first language so he might be struggling with what he had just heard. She was about to repeat more slowly her request when he said: "Klaas will be just fine for the moment."

This took her by surprise. "You do not wish to tell me your last name? Why?"

"Because it's not any of your business. You're a healer for God's sake, just fix me so I can leave."

He had raised his voice ever so slightly, but the menace there was easily readable. Mathilda squirmed on her stool as the three other healers glanced their way. She smiled feebly at them to reassure them that everything was alright.

"As you wish then. You should sleep now. You've been given a good dose of poppy wine. It's almost a miracle that you're awake."

A low chuckle escaped Klaas' throat and he shrugged his broad shoulders as if she had said something ridiculous. His face was pale and sweaty, and combined with the chuckle it made him look slightly crazy. "It takes a lot of poppy wine to lull me to sleep, girl. I'm a warrior, I've been drinking that sweet drug most of my life."

Mathilda frowned at that. Poppy wine couldn't and shouldn't be given lightly. There were other alternatives less potent for lesser wounds. Yet Klaas was a big man, and sometimes lesser drugs didn't work as well as poppy wine. What would happen once his body got so used to it that it no longer worked, she couldn't tell. There was a maximum dosage that could be given without any risk. Passed that dose, the heart and the lungs could stop functioning. Even the brain could be affected sometimes. However, warriors who had to drink poppy wine like normal wine usually didn't live long enough to face that problem. If anything, Klaas would die in a fortnight during the attack on Amsterdam so he'd no longer need any drug to soothe his pains.

That idea annoyed Mathilda for no reason she could fathom. Klaas was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties. He was tall, big and strong like tons of other young men his age. Sending them to their death was a waste. They could be doing so many other important things rather than getting hacked into bloody pieces. Wherever the Imperial army marched, only destruction was left. Villages, cities and towns had been left to nothing more than smoky ruins. Fields and forests had been burned to the ground so they couldn't provide for the rebels. It would be years before anything could grow in the gardens that had been salted. Perhaps even then the ground would be too poor to be usable again.

_I have to stop thinking about that or I might start to cry..._

Crying in front of a patient was out of the question. She straightened her back and forced those thoughts away.

"Still, you have to sleep, sir," she said. "Your wounds won't heal otherwise. If –"

She was interrupted by loud shouts coming from outside the tent. Her head snapped up as her eyes scanned the interior of the medical tent. Wounded men who had been drowsing or sleeping jerked on their cots at the sound. Some were raising themselves on an elbow to look around. More shouts were heard, then the rattling of metal being drawn. It was hard to tell where the sounds were coming from exactly, but Mathilda felt they were way too close for comfort. She glanced at the three other medics who stood at attention, looking perplexed about what to do. Murmurs resounded inside the tent as the wounded men asked those around them if they knew what was happening.

A trumpet call tore the night. Mathilda's blood ran cold. She knew the sound and calls of the Imperial trumpeters, and this one hadn't been made by them. It was an enemy call, she was sure of it.

One single glance at the wounded man was enough to confirm her doubts: he was grinning and looking somewhat expectant.

But what were these idiots doing?! What were they thinking, attacking the camp of the Imperial army head on as if they had nothing to fear! How had they made it past the sentries at the palisade to start with? How was it no guard had noticed them? It was hard to tell by the sounds only, but there seemed to be quite a lot of rebels.

"What is going on?" Mathilda demanded to the man she had saved not twenty-four hours ago.

"A rescue, it would seem," he answered easily with a shrug.

"Who are you for these men to embark on such a suicidal mission?" Her voice felt weak and she had to swallow hard. Something was taking shape in her mind that she didn't like at all. What if it was her fault that the rebels were in the camp? What if taking that man had been a very bad decision?

Klaas opened his mouth to answer, but other shouts drowned his answer. Suddenly, the flap of the tent was flung opened. Torchlight flooded the inside of the tent with a reddish-yellow light that had the patients gasp in surprise. Men stood on the threshold of the tent, their silhouettes visible against the background of black night sky. Light gleamed off the cold steel of their drawn weapons.

The three healers got to their feet, alarmed. Michelle glanced at Mathilda with wide brown eyes. She was scared and her face looked pale, yet her fists were closed. She looked ready to fight for her life.

Mathilda remained seated on her stool, rooted there by fear. Her heart was beating wildly inside her chest, hammering so hard that she was certain everybody else in the tent could hear it. Everything seemed to be happening too slow and too fast at the same time. Her thoughts couldn't keep up with the events. A minute ago, she was having a conversation with one of her patients, the next minute enemy soldiers were standing at the door with drawn swords. She was no warrior and she didn't know everything about the camp's security, but she knew it shouldn't have happened. In all her memories of the war, she couldn't remember rebels managing to infiltrate the camp, much less coming close enough to walk into a tent. Had the security grown slack, or had the rebels become wiser, bolder, stronger? Either way, it was a scary thought.

All she knew for certain was that these men were ready to forfeit their life to save one person: the man named Klaas. If they were willing to sacrifice themselves, it meant that Klaas was more than a regular foot soldier in the rebel army. He had to be someone important, _very_ important. But that wasn't her main concern for now. She could tell from the rebels' stance that they were peering into the tent's half-darkness, most likely looking for the man they had come to rescue. Should Klaas call out to them, they were all done for. She didn't know where the Imperial soldiers were or if they knew at all that there were rebels in the medical tent. For this suicidal operation to have a chance to succeed, other rebel soldiers had to serve as decoy. So maybe the Imperial soldiers were too busy with those to realise that a small force had slipped past their guards. How could they know, really? They had no idea that one of the rebels was housed in the medical tent after all.

_This is all my fault! _Mathilda realised with a sick feeling in her stomach. If people died today, it would be on her head only.

Without realising what she was doing, she got to her feet. A few seconds only had passed since the first shout had been heard, but it felt much longer to her. Her fear seemed to attune her senses, for she saw and heard everything more clearly. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Klaas sitting up, ready to shout out to his comrades. Mathilda didn't even think twice; she grabbed the copper washbasin that stood on the bedside table and whacked it across the man's head. She was quite strong despite all appearances and the blow sent Klaas tumbling out of the cot. Thank God, he had fainted and lay sprawled on the floor, unmoving. She felt a stab of guilt – what if the blow had cracked his skull open?! – but there was nothing she could do about it for the moment. All eyes were on her now, so she carefully set the basin back on the bedside table (there was a dent on it now).

She was the Emperor's daughter, so it befell her to protect her people.

Shaking and frightened near to fainting, Mathilda held her head high and walked towards the rebel still standing uncertainly by the door. The three other healers looked at her with wide eyes, seemingly at a loss of what to do. There was no second door they could use to escape or to fetch help. They were on their own.

The soldiers that lay on cots, wounded or sick, were all slowly climbing to their feet. Their hands were balled into fists as they stood ready to defend their encampment. Some who had been recently injured could hardly stand up; they swayed precariously and looked green in the face. Other healthier men were ready for business, but Mathilda knew they had been bedridden until too recently to put up a good fight. Furthermore, none of them had any sort of weapons. Weapons were forbidden inside the medical tent. The only sharp objects allowed in here were medical tools, and Mathilda couldn't imagine stabbing a rebel soldier with a scalpel, be it the sharpest of them all.

She motioned for the soldiers closest to the door to stay put. One had a bandage on his forehead were blood was slowly seeping. Another one had lost an eye while a third had his arm in a sling. They didn't look too happy to be refused a fight, yet they obeyed her. They didn't sit back down on their cots however, and they would most likely jump into the fray should one of the rebels try to attack the healer.

Mathilda felt sick to her stomach as she stood in front of the enemy soldiers. She was tall for a woman, yet she felt small and weak in front of these men holding weapons. She had grown up around soldiers and knew some of them had minds that had been unhinged by war. Any reason to spill blood was a good excuse and they wouldn't listen to reason. Those were usually the best in a melee but horrible to be around during peaceful times.

"Sirs," she began, trying to mimic the same imperial tone her father used whenever he addressed his men, "you are in a medical tent. I believe it is a law of war that no harm should come to healers or their charges." Then she felt ridiculous because these men were obviously Dutchmen; there was no telling that they could understand her language. Still, she hoped that if the meaning of her words wasn't understood, at least her tone of voice would be.

"We looking for our king," one of the men holding a torch said in halting English. The red fire danced on the planes of his face, making it hard to read his expression. "We see him taken."

_Their king! _Mathilda thought in a panic. She had to fight the urge to glance behind her shoulder had the man she had just whacked across the head with a copper jar. _He can't be a king! He's far too young for that!_

"There is no king in this tent," Mathilda announced in a clipped tone. "You should know we take no prisoners, especially not wounded ones. Your king must be dead somewhere. Now go before our soldiers arrive and turn you into corpses."

There was murmuring amongst the rebel soldiers. They looked agitated; as if they had been sure their king was in this tent. Mathilda's heart threatened to jump out of her chest. She was so scared she was sure she would faint sooner or later. Her eyes kept wandering towards the naked steel held in the men's hands. She was too close; they could run her through easily, but taking a step backwards would mean showing fear. _Alfred wouldn't be afraid, _she thought to give herself courage, _Alfred would stand tall and spit in these men's faces. _Yes, but Alfred would have a sword of his own to back up his threat. Where was he anyway?!

"We search tent," the man with the torch said after conferring with his brothers-at-arms. His dark eyes narrowed at her. "We don't trust word of Imperialist slut."

Imperialist slut! Mathilda's face reddened at the insult. It was twice she had been insulted today and she didn't like it better the second time. She had a mind to slap that man's face, yet she held her hand to her side. They would kill her at the first threatening move she made. God, she had never been trained to face situations like this. Blood, open wounds, screams of agony; she could deal with. But her mind seemed to have gone completely blank when facing the weapons that caused blood, open wounds and screams of agony.

"You can't come in," she said despite her shock at the insult. Her voice sounded meek and pathetic. Her eyes burned and she feared she'd burst into tears of pure terror. Her stomach twisted painfully, her heart was beating too fast and she could hardly breathe. She had to calm herself before she fainted.

The interdiction didn't seem to faze the enemy soldiers at all. The one holding the torch, probably the leader, took a step towards her. He hadn't drawn his sword yet, but his free hand rested on its hilt. Mathilda just wanted to turn back and run off screaming. Shaking, she remained rooted there, glaring up at the enemy soldier. He probably saw the terror in her eyes for he didn't look impressed by her at all.

_I should let them take their king and leave, _she realised as the man took another step. _I'm sure they'll be too busy running away with him to cause any more trouble. That way, I'll protect my people. I –_

A scream stopped her thoughts cold in her mind. She saw something move past the tent's flap in a blur. Blood gushed, looking black against the night sky. The rebel soldiers all turned at the same time to see what was happening. A man wearing a red coat and wielding a broadsword was hacking through the rebel soldiers standing by the door. Three were already done for, now bloody corpses on the muddy ground. The others rushed him in a yell, all of them except for the one already in the tent.

Mathilda had no idea who was outside cutting down the enemy soldiers, but she was thankful to him. However, the man with the torch was still slowly advancing inside the tent, intent on finding his king. Mathilda remained in front of him and took a step backward for each forward he took. This was ridiculous, really. She was supposed to stop him but instead she was almost allowing him in. Yet she couldn't force her feet to stay still. Her fear forced her to walk back to keep a distance between the man and her. Soon, they would reach the end of the tent and he would discover his ally whom he seemed to think was his king. What would happen, then? Would he kill her to save him? Would he kill her and the other healers alongside the wounded imperial soldiers?

No, no, no. He could take his so-called king but she wouldn't let him kill her soldiers! Men might kill each other on the battlefield, there was no stopping that, but it wouldn't do to murder unarmed soldiers too weak to fight. She was the Emperor's daughter, Alfred's sister, a descendant from one of the most powerful lineage of kings and queens, she couldn't be _that_ helpless.

This time, instead of taking a step back when the man took one forward, Mathilda rushed him. Her shoulder connected directly with his sternum and the breath whooshed out of his lungs. It worked only because he didn't expect her to fight back, but it worked. Unbalanced and a bit stunned, he wasn't fast enough to stop her from stealing his sword from its scabbard. She unsheathed the long blade with one swift motion and held its point to his face. It was big and heavy and it shook in her hands, but it was threatening nonetheless.

"Step back!" she yelled, swinging the sword at him.

He obeyed as he tried to gasp in a good breath. She swung at him again and he stopped the blow with the wooden shaft of his torch. It clang loudly in the tent and Mathilda nearly dropped the blade. Her fingers tightened their hold on the hilt however and she tried to hit him again. He ducked, and the heavy blade flew harmlessly over his head. Her momentum threw her to the side. With the blade away from her body, her chest and belly were left unprotected. He went for a punch in the stomach that sent her sprawling on the ground. The sword spun out of her hands to disappear under one cot. Out of reach.

Alongside the sword at his belt, the man had a dagger, which he unsheathed as soon as she was unarmed. Mathilda could hardly breathe due to the punch to her stomach, but her eyes could see well enough. She immediately caught sight of the naked blade that would surely open her throat. She sat up on the dirt floor, gasping and shaking all over. The world had narrowed down to one gleaming piece of metal slowly approaching her. She wasn't aware of the tears coursing down her cheeks or her gasping pleas for mercy. There would be no mercy coming from that man, she knew it deep down inside.

_I don't want to die! I don't want to die! Please, please God, I don't want to die on a dirt floor crying and gasping with snot running down my face!_


	4. Who Should Follow Blindly Without Knowin

**Author's Note**

Greetings to all readers!

- First, to those who have read up until now, thank you very much! It is greatly appreciated! This story means a lot to me! I'm posting this new chapter a bit earlier than intended because I'm leaving for Europe next week and I'm not sure I'll have the time to update until my return.

- Second, a new character is introduced in this chapter! Those who know me will know my fondness for Australia, and I couldn't resist adding him to this story! He is named 'Dan' (short for Daniel of course!) and though his role isn't a major one, he'll be present often.

-Third, while browsing some art on Tumblr, I found a picture of the Netherlands that reminded me of how I picture him in this story. I also found a picture of how I picture Canada (although the picture isn't a drawing of Canada at all!). The links can be found on my profile page.

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><strong>Who Should Follow Blindly Without Knowing The Destination<strong>

Then, as the man was sweeping down that wicked dagger towards her, he stopped abruptly. His eyes widened, his face paled and he coughed up blood. His whole body shook once from head to toe. His fingers spasmed around the hilt of the dagger before dropping it almost gently. He stood upright for a few heartbeats before his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground.

By now, Mathilda was sobbing so hard she could hardly see what was going on around her. Her vision was blurred by tears and she more felt than saw the man falling to the ground. When a hand fell across her shoulder, she screeched.

"Mattie! Calm down, for God's sake!"

Shaking, she looked up to see her brother's face. She stared at him for a second as if she couldn't recognize him. Very slowly, her gaze swept the scene around her. All the men that had been standing by the door were now bloody corpses on the ground. The one who had come after her with a dagger was also lying facedown on the dirt floor of the tent. The torch he had held was being rapidly put out by a healer with a bucket of water before its fire spread to the nearby wood cots. Everything happened so fast that she couldn't make sense of it.

The enemy soldiers were all dead? She was alive? What the…?

"It's fine, _you're_ fine," Alfred assured her.

He had a commanding voice, the same as their father's, and the sureness of his tone made her feel better. Alfred was here and he was assuming command of things. Mathilda managed to compose herself enough to get to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly and she had to put a hand on her brother's arm not to crumble back to the ground. Her stomach still hurt from the blow but she managed a feeble smile for the sake of the onlookers.

The three healers had cowered behind the wooden desk, standing together like frightened children. The wounded soldiers who had gotten up in readiness to defend themselves were slowly sitting back down on their cot. Some of them were as pale as milk, clearly exhausted by such action. Others had pleased smirks on their face as if they had chased away the intruders by themselves.

Someone put a cup into her fingers and told her to drink. Numbly, Mathilda obeyed. A fiery liquid slid down her throat to settle like a lake of fire inside her stomach. It brought new tears her eyes and made her cough. However, it had a bracing effect. Her thoughts stopped spinning and she managed to get a grasp on herself. She finished the cup of bracing spicy wine with a grimace. Still shaken, she felt more like herself now.

"Thank you," she said to Michelle, the one who had been quick-minded enough to bring her the wine. She then turned to her brother. "What happened?"

Alfred had clearly been sleeping when the attack happened. He was wearing trousers and an undershirt open at the throat with unlaced boots. His light blond hair was dishevelled with one strand standing upright. He wore no gloves, but his broadsword was firmly in his grasp. He had some blood on his left cheekbone that, thankfully, didn't seem to be his and on the front of his undershirt. The blade of his sword was covered in crimson from tip to cross guard.

He shrugged. "There was an attack on the camp. Apparently, two different forces attacked at the same time. The one to the south was numerous and clumsy, which seemed odd to me. If you're to send troops inside an enemy camp, you send the best. That's when I heard from some panicked kid that he had spotted other rebels in the camp. I came here as soon as possible." Then, despite it all, Alfred grinned. "I don't understand why I hurried so much though; you seemed to have things well in hand."

Of course, he meant her pathetic attempt at stealing the man's sword. Mathilda groaned, but she couldn't stop a small smile forming at her lips. "Oh, don't make fun of me. I panicked. It was stupid, I should have waited for my knight in shining armour to rescue me."

Alfred's eyebrows rose high enough to disappear under his blond fringe. "Dan will be very happy that you call him your knight in shining armour."

Mathilda gasped. "It was he who slew these men?!" she gestured towards the corpses at the door of the tent. "But he's just a child!"

"He's seventeen, and a very good swordsman. If it hadn't been for him, I doubt I would have reached you in time."

"Where is he? Has he been hurt?"

"I don't think so. He's checking around to make sure there aren't any more soldiers."

As if summoned, Dan, their cousin, walked in the tent, being careful not to step on the bloodied corpses littering the ground. He was a good-looking lad of seventeen with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. He was perhaps an inch shorter than Alfred, but with the broad shoulders of a swordsman. He had a scar atop the bridge of his nose, not acquired in battle but in a ridiculous incident in his childhood. It would give him a fierce appearance if not for his large dark eyes and perpetual big smile. As he walked in, he sheathed his sword back on the scabbard strapped to his back.

"There, all safe!" Dan said in his thick brogue. "There was a sentry near the northern gate but I dispatched him easily."

"Good work," Alfred admitted with a nod.

"I hear congratulations are in order," Mathilda said, turning towards her cousin. She smiled. "Alfred tells me you are the one who saved us. You've been training hard and it shows. Thank you."

Dan always wanted to impress people around him, especially his older cousins. He was tireless whenever he put his mind to accomplish something. His goal in life seemed to be as good a swordsman as Alfred, which forced him to train hard every day. It seemed to pay off however. Not so long ago, he had been clumsy and awkward with a blade. Now, he managed to kill five or six men on his own without getting a scratch on himself.

The compliment didn't go unnoticed, and the young man beamed as bright as the sun. He bowed in front of Mathilda with a flourish.

"Anything to protect my dearest cousin!" he said earnestly.

Despite everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours, Mathilda managed a smile for her cousin. She felt exhausted, worn out and shaky. She was just coming to realise how close her brush with death had been. That man with the torch whose sword she had stolen had meant to kill her; she had seen it in his eyes. What scared her most however was that there had been no hatred in the man's eyes. He hadn't wanted to kill her simply because she wasn't born in the same country as him; he had to kill her because she stood between him and someone he wished to protect. As she glanced at his corpse still lying on the ground, she couldn't bring herself to feel hate for the man who could have killed her. Were their positions reversed, wouldn't have she done the same?

More allied soldiers poured inside the medical tent, confused as to what had just happened. Alfred talked to them, not leaving out the part his sister had played in defending the wounded men. The soldiers looked at her with some kind of new respect as some smiled and others nodded as if nothing less were expected of her. Mathilda felt foolish; it wasn't as if she had fought off all these rebels by herself. She simply stole a man's sword only to have it knocked out of her hands. She didn't say so however. She didn't have the strength to.

Finally, the mess was cleaned up. The corpses of the rebels were taken away. Their clothes, weapons and any valuables they might have had on them would be looted, then their bodies would be burned to prevent the spread of any diseases. Michelle and the two male healers saw to the wounded soldiers who had tried to get up during the melee. Some bandages had to be changed and some poppy wine had to be given for sleep, but otherwise they would all be fine. The three healers, like the soldiers, looked at Mathilda with a new light of respect in their eyes.

"I'll accompany you back to your tent," Alfred said to his sister after everything had been cleared away. "Spirits run high after a fight."

Mathilda glanced at Dan, unsure if she could speak up in front of him. Alfred nodded, and she realised he had informed their cousin about the enemy man they had rescued yesterday. (Was it only yesterday? It seemed like a lifetime ago.)

"I had to whack him across the head with the water pitcher to make sure he didn't call out to his friends," Mathilda said in a low voice to make sure nobody else in the tent heard her. "He's lying on the floor, unconscious. I can't leave him there."

"Why won't you finish him off?" Dan asked, frowning his bushy brows descending low. "He'll bring nothing but trouble."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Because she's gotten into her head that she has to make him better." His exasperated tone of voice made it clear what he thought about his sister's idea. "And if he's really their king, it will make things much easier for us. The Dutchmen will be less inclined to fight if they don't have their king to back them up."

"That's not how I see it," Mathilda retorted, narrowing her eyes. "If I turn him off now, he'll most likely die. It will stain my hands as much as if I had slain him myself with a sword. I've sworn an oath to heal and soothe pain, not to kill people! I won't be an oath breaker."

"You're too kind-hearted for war," Dan said simply. There was no reproach in his tone, thankfully.

"I know you might not see things the way I do," she added softly, "but too many people have suffered already because of this stupid war. It has been going on for the last ten years. I can hardly remember what peace feels like. If I can ease one man's suffering, then I will do it, be he enemy or ally."

Talking about helping the enemy was treasonous talk. Men had been hanged for less. Nervously, both Dan and Alfred glanced around them to make sure they weren't being overheard by one of the healers or one of the wounded men.

"What do you propose then?" Alfred asked.

_He looks tired, _Mathilda thought as she looked up at her older brother's face. Alfred had just turned twenty, yet at this moment, in the quivering light of the torches, he looked ten years older. There were shadows underneath his blue eyes and a permanent worry line etched between his eyebrows.

"Rebellion," Dan said seriously.

The word seemed to ring in the silent tent. It held a transfixing spell with a sharp edge. Rebellion either saved you or killed you, nothing in between. It was like a blade with only one sharp edge; either you got the blunted side of the blade or the whetted one.

Mathilda and Alfred remained silent as the word echoed around in their head. If they were honest, they had both thought about it for a long time. They both knew that there was no talking their father out of this war. He had been winning battle after battle for so long that he thought himself invincible. There was no reason for him to want to stop now that things were going so well. He would stop at nothing short of the whole world. And once he held the world in the palm of his hand, well, he'd still want more. He also said that steel spoke louder than words. If he were right, an armed rebellion was the only thing that could make him see reason. Even killing him probably wouldn't change anything. Along the years, he had surrounded himself by other zealots as bent on world conquest as he was. Should he be struck down, they would only be too glad to continue his life's work with renewed fervour. They too would have to taste the blade, and there still wasn't a guarantee that it would stop the war. Someone inconsequent, maybe a foot soldier or even a stable boy, would rile up everybody else to continue what had been started ten years earlier.

"What have to think very carefully about what will happen next," Alfred said after a long silent pause. "We can't be hasty, otherwise we will only be killed."

"It's not the dying that scares me," Dan admitted with a humourless smile. "It's what they would put us through before that keeps me awake at night."

It was known to all that the Emperor kept in his circle of intimates torturers who could make a man's pain last for weeks until his mind went unhinged. Their screams of agony would ring through the camp day after day, until some of the soldiers begged the torturers to put an end to the poor bastard's life.

The three of them knew that, despite being kin to the Emperor, should they foment rebellion, they would be handed without a second thought to the torturers. The Emperor would probably use them as an example to prove that even his family wasn't allowed to plot against him. Their sufferings would be long and painful until they begged for the mercy of death.

Alfred's grim expression didn't change. He sighed deeply. "Let's get some rest and we'll talk about this later. Maybe one of us will come up with a plan."

Mathilda nodded. "Alright. Good night, brother. Sleep well." She turned to her cousin. "Good night to you too, Dan. Thank you again for saving all our lives."

As if they hadn't been discussing their doom a few seconds ago, Dan smiled brightly. "You're welcome! Good night to you too and don't stay up too late to look after your patient."

Both men left the medical tent, and Mathilda was once again on her own. The three other healers had gone back to their work after tending to the wounded soldiers who had risen to defend them during the attack. Mathilda envied her brother and her cousin who would soon lay their head on their pillow for the remainder of the night. Every fibre of her body was exhausted and crying for rest. She could hardly keep her eyes open and her mind was a bit foggy. Yet, duty called and, as always, she answered. She went back to her patient, the king of the Dutch people if everything she had heard tonight was true, and painfully hoisted him back on his pallet. He had been knocked to the floor after she had whacked his head with the copper water pitcher. He was still unconscious, which was a good thing. She slipped him some milk of the poppy so he would sleep at least until morning. The water pitcher had broken the skin on his right temple, but the blood had already stopped. The wound was far from being dangerous. He probably wouldn't have fainted from the blow if he hadn't already been weakened.

Mathilda sat on her stool once again, glad to finally be off her feet. As soon as she was seated, she started nodding off, too tired to try to keep her eyes opened. All around her, the wounded soldiers were getting back to sleep, their soft breathing lulling her to sleep too. The usual noises of the camp seemed far away. She heard distant shouting, footsteps outside the canvas wall of the tent and some laughter. Those were the noises she was used to. It felt comforting after the eventful night she had just lived. And so, seated on the uncomfortable wooden stool, she slept.


	5. He Knew Only That his Child was his Warr

Long chapter is long!

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><p><strong>He Knew Only That his Child was his Warrant<strong>

Morning came with the shift change for the healers. Those who had been up all night, Michelle and the two men, were glad to be relieved of their duties. They exchanged excited whispers with the new healers about the night's events. The newcomers had heard all about the sneak attack, yet they were eager to hear about it again from those who had witnessed it firsthand.

Before she left, Michelle woke Mathilda up. Even though she hadn't slept for more than three hours, Mathilda felt rested and a lot calmer than the night before. She thanked her friend and promised to get some rest as soon as possible. The three new healers kept glancing her way out the corner of their eye as they tried to guess if it were true that she had defended the tent with a stolen sword. Mathilda didn't answer their unspoken question. Instead, she made her round of the wounded men, looking at their bandaged wounds and asking them if they needed anything. Most men were bright eyed after the night's adventure and were eager to gossip about it amongst themselves. Mathilda left them to it, seeing no harm in it. It was better than seeing them growing depressed about their situation after all.

She checked on her own patient, the so-called king of the Dutchmen. Klaas was still asleep. His skin was cool to the touch, which meant no infection had spread from his wounds. Mathilda cleaned the cut on his forehead she had stitched up the day before. No stitch had been pulled during the struggle. Everything looked good, and the man was already on the way of being mended. His life was no longer in danger. He'd live, and Mathilda didn't know if it were a good thing or not. She still didn't know what she'd do with that man once he was strong enough to fight her off. Soon enough, she feared, someone would recognize him for an enemy. What would happen then, she had no idea. He'd probably be killed or even tortured. But what of her, who had nursed him back to health? Knowing him, her father would probably consider it as treason. She shivered at the thought.

A messenger arrived a few minutes later, telling her that her father summoned her. It was so unusual that Mathilda asked the young boy to repeat his message. The boy did, and she felt dread seize her whole body.

"Has my father told you what is the nature of this summon?" she asked, trying to hide the trembling of her voice.

The boy shrugged before taking his leave. Mathilda remained seated for another five minutes, juggling with possibilities in her head. Her father hasn't summoned her for months now. Whenever she saw him, it was always at a distance while he was speaking to his men. Alfred brought her news of him, but that was about it. Mathilda couldn't understand why the emperor would want to see her now. Had he maybe heard about their plan of rebellion? That seemed highly unlikely. If it had been the case, soldiers would have been sent for her instead of a messenger boy. She would have heard rumours of her brother and cousin being brought in for questioning. The unknowing bothered her, yet there was no way she could ignore a direct summon from her father. The old man didn't like being refused.

So Mathilda got to her feet with a heavy sigh. She didn't feel rested and alert enough to face her father. When she looked down at herself, she realised that she was still wearing yesterday's clothes, those she had worn when she went to the killing field with Alfred. Her trousers were muddied and spattered with dried blood. Her boots were also caked brown and red. Her jacket smelled of sooth and unwashed body. Her hair hung limply all around her face and a few blond strands stuck to her cheeks. She hadn't seen her face in a mirror, but she had no doubt that it was pale and dirty. No matter what she felt for her father, she couldn't present herself in such a state of disarray. He would take it as an offence.

And so, she left the tent she considered as her second home and went to her own tent planted not three minutes away. She always insisted that her quarters be close to her workplace, so she could reach it rapidly. Today, it was a blessing. The sun was nowhere to be seen, hidden behind thick grey-black clouds that promised a forthcoming downpour. The wind had risen during the night and was howling between the rows of canvas habitations. Soldiers walked with their head down as their cloaks flapped widely about them. Hats, papers and other miscellaneous objects rolled on the muddy ground, pushed by the winds and dirtied. The air smelled like flat water. It was humid and quite cold, odd weather for a rainstorm.

Like the others, Mathilda walked with her head bowed. The wind seemed to push against her to hinder her progress towards her tent. It tugged relentlessly at her clothes and long hair. Fat droplets of water were starting to fall from the sky. One splattered on her cheek, and she ran the last few feet to reach her tent before getting caught in the downpour.

The inside of her tent was warm. Someone had lit a fire and candles. It chased the gloom and for a second she wondered why she spent so little time here. This tent was as much her home as the castle she had lived in until a few years ago. It wasn't very large, but it was of bright lilac canvas, a cheery colour she liked very much. The floor was covered with thick plush carpets of bright colours imported from Turkey. They kept the chill from the ground at bay. Her bed wasn't a cot like the ones in the medical tent, but a real wooden structure. It wasn't as grand as the one she had had back in London – it had been far too big to be easily transported – yet it served its purpose just fine. It was a lot better than what most of the soldiers had. Beside the bed was a small bedside table with a candle burning on it. Beside it was a book she had forgotten she had started reading. At the foot of the bed was a large cedar chest in which her clothes were packed. Across the tent was a small escritoire, a low table with a basin of water for washing and an armoire. Mathilda didn't like that pretentious huge piece of furniture. It seemed too big for the tent and out of place for a war camp. It was a bother to pack as it took five strong men to carry and barely fit in the baggage wagons. Apparently, it had belonged to her mother, her grand-mother and her great-grandmother and other parents for many generations. Her father had insisted she took it with her and the war host. It was full of clothes, not the kind of clothes needed on the battlefield, but dresses of all sorts; pink and lilac and green and white and beige and orange, with different fabrics like silk and velvet and cotton and wool and even some furs. Some had belonged to her mother while others had been made for her. There were dresses she had worn when she had been five that would, of course, no longer fit her. Yet they all had to follow her. Mathilda couldn't understand why. She had hardly worn any kind of dress since the war begin. This was not the best kind of clothing for a doctor who had to meddle with blood and entrails and vomit all day long. She had taken to wear her brother's old clothes for that. Men's clothes, she had found out, were much more comfortable. She could move more easily with trousers rather than with huge puffy skirts. And nobody looked twice at her because all female doctors and female soldiers did the same. It had displeased her father, of course, but he hadn't objected.

Mathilda studied the armoire with irritation. She had no idea if her father would prefer her to wear a dress or her man's clothing. Finally, she decided that she didn't care much what her father wanted. She wouldn't go to him with stained and dirty clothes, but she wouldn't dress up for him either. Putting on a layered-dress required the help of two serving women anyway and Mathilda didn't have any at the moment.

She stripped off her dirty clothes, wincing at the horrible stench. They smelled of old blood, drying mud and sweat. The trousers were stiff between knee and mid-calf where blood and mud from the killing field had dried. Her boots were beyond salvaging. Her leather jacket would need a good washing, as much as the tunic beneath it that was sticky with sweat. The shift she wore underneath it all had turned from white to yellowish with sweat stains. She put aside all these clothes for the washerwomen and went to the basin of water. Above it had been hung a round polished looking glass. Mathilda froze when she spied her reflection on the glass. She knew she was tired, but according to what she saw, she looked positively exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes, which usual purple colour looked a dull grey. Her face was drawn and pale while her hair hung limply around her head. Her hair had never been a bright blond colour like her brother's, but today it was almost brown with dirt, greasy and stringy. There was a smudge of dirt on her right cheekbone and a morsel of yesterday's breakfast was stuck between her front teeth. She couldn't see the rest of her body on the small looking glass, but she could imagine it didn't look much better

At first, Mathilda had planned for a simple wash over with a towel, but now a full bath was more than needed. She also needed to wash her hair. She almost couldn't believe how dirty she looked. How mortifying to have been seen in such a state of dishevelment.

Two servant women were called. They brought a copper tub from the baggage wagons and slowly filled it with warm water. The inside of the tent soon swam with steam. Mathilda sat on a small stool, wrapped in a woollen bathrobe, waiting for everything to be ready. The heat made her sleepy again. She had barely slept these last two days and all she wanted to do was to crawl in her bed to sleep for the next week. The two servants chatted in low voice as they worked, never once glancing her way. To them, the dirty blond woman was only the emperor's daughter, a highborn lady whom they should fear and respect. One of the women was old with greyish hair. She had a soldier son who Mathilda had treated for a severe burn a few weeks ago. Some other people might have thanked her for that, but not the servants. They were afraid of the emperor and his family.

Mathilda didn't try to chat with them. When they left, she removed her bathrobe and climbed into the tub. The water was blissfully warm and scented. To her delight, lilac perfume had been added to the water and the smell was heavenly. It never failed to remind her of home, where there had been lilac trees inside the bailey. Their perfume would fill the courtyard and surrounding castle for days even after the flowers themselves had died. Mathilda rested her back against the rim of the tub, sighing in content. The warm water loosened her tight muscles and unclogged the pores of her skin. She knew she shouldn't linger too long, yet she couldn't bring herself to hurry. Baths were a rare luxury on the march. When the army didn't settle for a long period but only camped by the side of the road, there was no time for something as superfluous as washing. Mathilda had gotten used to it, like everybody else, but that didn't mean she didn't enjoy bathing when it was possible.

She finally stirred herself when she realised she was slowly sinking. She had nearly fallen asleep. Water had sloshed over the rim of the bath to wet the carpet. Mathilda giggled nervously before sitting up. One part of the rim of the bath was larger than the rest. A purple soap and a bottle of shampoo sat on it. Due to her rank, she could have had someone wash her hair and her back for her, but Mathilda had always been ridiculously shy. She hated to expose herself to anybody, even to servants who were used to see naked highborns prance about. She took the thick bar of soap first and scrubbed every part of her skin clean. To her mounting amusement, the water was getting a bit brownish as the dirt and sweat was being washed away from her. The soap also smelled of lilac but with a bit of lemon too, as did the shampoo. It would have been better to wash her head in another basin of water, but she couldn't be too picky. Time was running out anyway. Her father was probably already wondering where she was, but in the perfumed warm water, Mathilda couldn't bring herself to care much. She shampooed and rinsed off her hair twice, not knowing when there would be another chance for a bath. The army would be moving off in a fortnight after all. If by any chance they managed to take Amsterdam, the winning army would find lodging amongst the abandoned houses. Mathilda didn't like it much. As much as she enjoyed the comfort of a real house, it always felt wrong and weird to live in someone else's space; to use their furniture, eat their food and even wear their clothes.

A fluffy white towel had been laid aside for her. Mathilda wondered, as she patted dry her hair, how fierce would the Dutch army fight for their capital city. Especially with their king a prisoner of the emperor. Would there be another attack on the camp to retrieve the man? Were his people so lost without him? She tried to guess what her father's army would do should the emperor be kidnapped by the enemy. She couldn't come up with an answer. One of her father's favourite sayings was: the man lagging behind is left behind. Did that mean that his own men would live by that saying too, leaving their superior officer in the hands of the enemy? It was so confusing, and she put that annoying question out of her mind.

She climbed off the bath and dried herself. The air outside the tub seemed chilly. Her whole body erupted in gooseflesh. She wrapped the wet towel around her shoulders as she hurried towards the chest at the foot of her bed to find clothes. The shifts were thankfully neatly folded on the top of the pile. She discarded the towel to wriggle inside the white garment. It did little to shelter her from the cold, so she hurried to put on leather white trousers. Those hadn't belonged to Alfred but had been tailored to fit her body. She was almost as tall as her brother was, but her waist was narrower. Her behind was also ridiculously flatter, which meant that Alfred's trousers sagged below the belt. This had always been a teasing matter between siblings because Alfred knew how much it bothered his sister. After the trousers, she put on a tunic of fine wool with long sleeves, above which was added a padded sleeveless doublet. This one was red, because red was the colour of the emperor and everybody in his camp was expected to wear something of that colour, especially his own children. (Alfred wore blue just to spite him, but Alfred liked to be rebellious at times.) The doublet and tunic had also been tailored for her, because the upper clothing of her brother rarely fit her. Being a woman came with a price after all. Women usually wore corsets to support their chest, but corsets were a ridiculous item of clothing to wear on a battlefield. Mathilda couldn't afford to be out of breath all the time. So, the padded doublet was laced at the front, allowing her to tighten the laces under her breasts to support them instead of having a corset squeezing her lungs too. It wasn't perfect, but it had to make do. If it hadn't been for her breasts, people would probably have mistaken her for a much younger girl; she was narrow-hipped with flat buttocks and skinny limbs. Not the kind of shape men looked twice at. Dan had once mocked her by saying that her hips were so narrow that she probably wouldn't be able to give birth to a child. In a rare bout of sauciness, she had replied that he probably wouldn't be able to impregnate a woman with his tiny junk. That had been the end of the matter.

Mathilda smiled at the remembered argument. She brushed her hair, towelled it again, brushed it and towelled it until it was mostly dry. Then she braided it loosely. Her hair was probably the thing she liked the most about her body. It was dark blond, thick and reached the middle of her back. No matter how dirty it got, it remained soft to the touch and easy to dress. When she had been younger, her servants had loved to brush and dress it in all kind of fashion. Mathilda wasn't as dexterous as they had been, and a braid was quite practical. She couldn't afford for her hair to fall all over her face while she treated a patient after all. Her brother had suggested that she had it cut shorter to be more practical, but she had refused. The war would end one day or another, and her skills as a healer would no longer be needed. When that time came, she wanted to look like a lady. To be honest, no matter how much she loved her job, Mathilda couldn't stop herself from being envious of the ladies back home who could go on with their life as if nothing were happening. They were gossiping, using needles not to sew up flesh but to embroider pretty cloths. They had access to baths whenever they wished for it. All the good food they wanted was readied for them by their cooks. Their beds were made of feathers with soft blankets and thick pillows. Their servants helped them dress and do their hair every morning. Mathilda hadn't known that life for very long, but she had loved it nonetheless. Perhaps she was lazy or vain or proud, but she didn't care. Life on the battlefield was hardly life at all. Ever living in fear, ever living in discomfort with cold winds as bed mates and salted food for the hungry stomachs. She liked it despite its roughness. It had taught her many things a simple lazy life in a castle could never teach her. But she was growing tired of it. At night, she had realised not too long ago, she was now dreaming of a homecoming. Maybe she could be a lady who sometimes helped with the sick and wounded. It would be frowned upon, but some ladies did work in hospitals and help the poor.

She sighed as she pulled on her winter jacket. It was white leather lined with furs, the best kind of jacket money could buy. Who was she fooling? The war was far from being over, and there was little chance she could be sent home even if she asked. Her father wouldn't allow for his daughter to sit idly by while the rest of the family fought on.

Outside, the wind was still blowing as wildly as before. A tent had come loose and was flapping wildly. Soldiers rushed to try to anchor it back to the dirt floor. Mathilda hardly glanced at them as she made her slow way towards her father's large red pavilion. It was strategically placed at the centre of the camp where it could be easily reached by their soldiers but far from any attack by their enemies. Around it were other tents almost as big. Those belonged to the emperor's most favoured generals who had to be close at hand in case of a crisis. The throng of guardsmen was heavier here than anywhere else in the camp. The head of the whole army, of the whole empire, was massed here after all. These people needed protection more than anybody else.

Two elderly soldiers guarded the front door of the pavilion. Their lances were crossed, barring it. Mathilda knew they were probably amongst the most loyal men her father had. He wouldn't trust anybody else to guard the door of his own pavilion. She couldn't stop herself from thinking back about what she had discussed with her brother and her cousin the night before: treason. If it came to this, those two soldiers, amongst others, would be the first that had to be discarded. They were fiercely loyal to the emperor and would gladly die to save his life.

The two men looked Mathilda up and down suspiciously, as if they didn't recognize her. She waited, feeling slightly uneasy. Was her father really expecting her? Then one of the men finally waved her in. Their lances uncrossed and she walked inside the large pavilion.

It looked more like a council chamber than a pavilion. The tent was made of red canvas that was dyed every month not to lose its bright colour. The inside was lit by many torches. The fire coupled with the colour of the canvas turned everything a reddish hue. In the middle of the room was a huge carved table of dark wood. It was thick with long legs carved to make them look like lion's paws. It was high and covered with rolled maps, ink pots, writing utensils, empty goblets of wine, long wooden rulers, tons of papers and plates of half-eaten food. There were no chairs around it, for the emperor considered chairs to be for the lazy. People thought faster and better when they stood up on their feet, he liked to say. The ground was covered with thick rugs, priceless, but made threadbare after having been trampled on by thousands of mud-covered boots. A brazier of finely worked metal stood beside the table, hardly warming the pavilion. It smoked lazily and seemed empty of firewood and coal. The rest of the room was bare. There was a flap opposite to the one through which people entered, most likely leading to the emperor's bedchamber. Mathilda had never set foot there, but didn't doubt that her father's bedchamber was sparsely furnished. He was a man who liked practical things after all.

The emperor himself was waiting for her. He stood behind the table, his head bent towards a piece of paper. He was getting older, Mathilda noticed, but the years had not yet bent his back. He wasn't that tall, but he had broad shoulders and a thick chest. His hair had been a bright blond, the same as Alfred, but it was now duller and streaked with white. Under his fine red tunic and mail, his body was still knotted with muscles. Despite his bent head, Mathilda could see the lines on his face, accentuated by the dancing flames of the torches. When he looked up at her, his bright eyes were still as alert and watchful as before. They were almost the same hue as Alfred's, but colder, more calculating, a bit greyer than blue. Those were the eyes of a predator, slightly feline and sly. They never missed anything. And they were distrustful. Despite being surrounded by his hand-picked guards in the middle of his own camp, he wore a shirt of mail and a broadsword as his hip.

Mathilda immediately felt like a small child again as those cool blue-grey eyes rested on her. For a second, she forgot what to do. Then she remembered in a flash and bobbed a curtsy made awkward by her lack of skirt. Underneath her clothes, perspiration was beading on her skin. The inside of the tent was hot and humid, the air acrid with the smoke from the brazier and candles. It made her eyes prickle. She blinked.

Her father observed her for what appeared to be very long minutes. Mathilda tried her best not to squirm and to stand tall. She suddenly regretted not choosing a gown over her more comfortable trousers and doublet.

"Alfred was right, you do look like your mother," the emperor finally said. His voice was raspy; the voice of an old man, but it never shook. It held a commanding tone even when he wasn't barking order.

"Thank you…?" Mathilda answered meekly, making the statement sound like a question

She had no idea what to say to that comment. She vaguely remembered Alfred mentioning that their father had asked about her appearance the day before (or was it two days ago?), but she'd be damned if she knew what it meant. Was it supposed to be a good thing? Mathilda could hardly remember her mother, the lady Rosalind. The woman had died five years after giving birth to her only child. Mathilda knew she had been kind but sad. She had seen portraits of her, of course. There were five in the castle's tiny art gallery. Her lady mother had been a fair woman with light brown hair, purple eyes and freckles all over her cheeks and pointed nose. She had had a regal and dignified air, but underneath there had been unmistakable sadness. From what Mathilda had learned later on, Lady Rosalind had been some kind of duchess in a New World colony, the one where it was rumoured to always be winter. The emperor, on one visit, had been besotted by her beauty and had more or less forced her to marry him. The lady had been homesick and heartsick, as the rumours went however, and it was said that she died of sadness. Mathilda had no idea what her mother died of to be honest. Speaking of her was kind of forbidden. Even Alfred, who had briefly known her, didn't say much. But Mathilda had hardly known her mother and couldn't really mourn someone she barely knew. She mourned the idea of a mother rather than the woman herself. However, she didn't understand why her father was saying that she looked like her lady mother. According to the portraits, Lady Rosalind had been petite and short with the typical pale skin of northerners. Mathilda was tall for a woman and she never considered herself to be petite. Furthermore, her hair was blond instead of brown, her cheeks were rounded instead of sharp, she had no freckles at all and her nose was turned up rather than pointed.

Her father nodded as if he didn't hear the confusion in her voice. He shuffled some paper on the top of the table in front of him. If Mathilda hadn't known him better, she would have thought he was nervous. But that was ridiculous, right? The emperor who rode fearlessly into battle wouldn't be nervous to be talking to his nineteen-year-old daughter.

"You might have heard the rumours about Amsterdam," the emperor said after a short uncomfortable pause. When she nodded, he continued: "The Dutch people have lost their king. It is rumoured the man has been killed during our last battle, although it is almost impossible to prove. Niklaas van Rijn and his army have been worthy adversaries so far, but the Dutch people are weary of battle and want peace. The king has been replaced by one of his counsellors who has sent us terms of surrender. They are willing to let us in Amsterdam, to give us money and the few soldiers they still have, but they need a proof of our good faith that we won't raid their city. As you know, we need supplies and a place to winter before we march on France."

"This is great," Mathilda said, eyes wide in surprise.

If this was all true (except for the part of the Dutch king being dead of course), it meant that the army would winter in Amsterdam. It would save the life of thousands of soldiers. They could replenish their food wagons and their medicine supplies. They would be far from the cold in a big city rather than trudging miserably towards France in the snow. But there had to be a catch, because her father didn't look particularly pleased. First of all, it was unlike him to wish to winter somewhere rather than continue his campaign. He had never done so before. Was he finally growing old and tired of all that marching too? Or was he finally wizening up about the perils of winter? Nevertheless, something was afoot.

The emperor looked at her directly for the first time. Ever since Mathilda had walked inside the pavilion, he had barely glanced at her. His eyes had focused on everything but her. She managed to stifle a shiver of foreboding.

"This is not great. I had planned to already be in France by this time of year, or if not France, at least Belgium. But the Dutch forces have held us back more fiercely than I had expected. We've run through our supplies more quickly than intended. It would be folly and suicide to march on France, a kingdom still fresh from peace and expecting us, unprepared. Loathe as I am to admit it, we need Amsterdam and its supplies for the winter. Of course, this good counsellor, who seems wiser than the previous king, will let us in at a certain price." The emperor's eyes narrowed. "He asks for Alfred to be sent to him as his ward."

Mathilda couldn't stop herself. She gasped in horror. "Alfred?! No! You can't! What if this man hurts him?!"

The prospect horrified her. Alfred had always been by her side. Even if they were, in truth, only half siblings, they had spent most of their childhood together. She considered him a real brother, and the idea of being away from him was almost as dreadful as getting one of her limbs sawed off.

"I refused. I need Alfred. He might be a proud bastard, but he's one of my best swordsmen and the lowborn soldiers flock to him."

"This counsellor won't be happy…" Mathilda said hesitantly. She was relieved to hear that her father wouldn't give Alfred away so easily, but it made her suspicious.

"I offered him something better than a ward, I offered him a wife."

Mathilda blinked at her father, wondering what he was talking about. "A wife?" she repeated dumbly.

But the way her father was staring at her made his meaning plain. This unnamed counsellor wanted one of the emperor's children as some kind of hostage, to make sure the man would behave while he wintered in Amsterdam. He had, smartly enough, wanted Alfred, because Alfred was a strong warrior. Enemies on the battlefield fled before him instead of facing him with their swords. If somehow the emperor or his troops broke their word sometimes during winter, the counsellor would simply have to chop off Alfred's head. The emperor would lose a son (albeit a bastard son) and a strong well-liked swordsman. It would create disquiet amongst the troops, especially amongst the lowborn soldiers who appreciated Alfred. And so, giving Alfred away was out of the question. Who was left, but poor Mathilda, who shared the emperor's blood? But as a _wife_? She could hardly make sense of the word. Her father wanted to marry her off to some counsellor? Was that it? Why not a ward, as Alfred would have been? It would have probably meant living as a prisoner, but it would be much better than being a stranger's wife!

Something she couldn't name started to bubble inside her chest. It was a mix of fear, anger and despair. Mathilda kept her teeth clenched to make sure none of it poured out of her mouth. Horror-struck she might be, but never enough to yell or scream or curse at her father. It wouldn't change anything. It was easy to see by the hard-set of his jaw that he would brook no argument on the matter. His mind was set and, damn him, he probably had already arranged for everything. Mathilda's shoulders slumped. Suddenly, she felt very tired, as if all the hours spent on her feet during the last two days were crumbling down on her. A chair would have been nice, but there were none to be had. She wished Alfred would have been here at that moment to tell her what to do. No doubt, Alfred hadn't been made privy to this plot. He would have told her otherwise. How would he react to this news? She knew he would be angry, but she hoped he would keep his calm. Should he do something stupid, she would break down.

Her father's gaze hadn't left her. Very slowly, Mathilda nodded to show she understood all the implications.

"I trust you are fit for marriage?"

It was an odd way to word such a question, Mathilda reflected absentmindedly, but she nodded again numbly. He wanted to know if she had brought men to her bed, making her unfit for an important marriage such as this one. In a fit of despair, she regretted not having done this exact thing.

"Very well. In a fortnight, we will enter Amsterdam where you will meet your husband. I trust you will make yourself presentable," he eyed with disapproval her choice of clothes, "and that you will behave yourself as befit the daughter of an emperor."

There was no grand speech about how her wedding to this unknown man meant something close to salvation for his army. Without this, the army wouldn't be allowed to walk in Amsterdam without a fight. It would mean men dying, horses dying, supplies lowering, weapons breaking and winter creeping ever closer with no good shelter. He didn't even thank her for accepting this like a true lady; without throwing a tantrum or crying or yelling. Alfred would have raged, screamed, thrown things, probably even unsheathed his sword. But she wasn't her big brother. She wasn't fierce and strong and brave. She didn't know how to use a blade. She never had the chance to show courage and she doubted she had any in her to start with.

Mathilda barely noticed the ice-cold rain outside as she slowly dragged her feet towards her tent. In a matter of seconds, her clothes and hair were drenched, sticking to her body. But her mind was too far for her to care about such little things. She could scarcely believe what had just transpired. A marriage! A bloody wedding to a man whose face she had never laid eyes upon! Marriage to an unknown man was always something very probable for a highborn lady. Marriages were usually more like alliances than the joining of hands out of love between a man and a woman. Being the only daughter of the most powerful man in the world, Mathilda knew, somewhere deep down inside, that this fate would someday befall her. But with the war and everything that went with it, she had never had time to really consider this. Her father had always seemed too busy with his wars and soldiers to think much about his children. Maybe after the entire world had been conquered and there was time, he would have found her a husband. Someone who had been loyal to him throughout all these years, maybe, as a token of gratitude. Mathilda would have understood, and she most likely would have known the man.

But this was something else entirely; to marry her off to some unknown counsellor, a foreigner, an enemy? She never would have thought it possible. She had believed her father had more respect for her. Of course, she understood why he did. The army needed a place to winter, and Amsterdam was but a fortnight march from their camp. It was a very rich city and had stood the longest against the incoming English tide. It could have been taken by force of course, but it would have taken a long while, would have been costly in men, money and provisions. Time grew shorter with each passing day. Anybody who spent five minutes outside could feel the bite of the cold. In a way, it was her life against the life of thousands of soldiers. Being sheltered in Amsterdam with ample food and wood to keep warm would save lives, she knew. And it felt kind of selfish to mourn the loss of her own life.

She reached her tent, drenched and cold. She pushed the wet canvas flap aside to walk in. A fire in the iron brazier had been lit. The warmth made her skin tingle. Mathilda's eyes fell on the bed. How long had it been since she had slept amongst its sheets and warm covers? Far too long. All her body ached. Even her bones felt wet. Numbly, awkwardly, she stripped of her sodden clothes. They fell limply on the think carpets, already forgotten. Dressed only in her cold shift, Mathilda slid between the bed sheets. They weren't very warm yet, but it was enough for her. As soon as her aching head rested on the feather pillow, she was asleep.


	6. Sometimes, You Just Have to Regret Thing

**Sometimes, You Just Have to Regret Things and Move On**

A hand shook her by the shoulder. As soon as her unremembered dream vanished, she knew that it was already twilight and that she had slept most of the day. Yet she refused to open her eyes. Childishly, Mathilda hoped that if she pretended long enough to be asleep, she would be left alone. Getting up had very little lure right now.

Yet the hand persisted in its shaking, and she had no choice but to open her eyes. She immediately spotted her brother's face looming above hers. Mathilda blinked at him before narrowing her eyes, trying to convey how displeased she was by his rude awakening. Seeing that she was finally awake, Alfred removed his hand and stood back. The fire in the iron brazier hadn't died down. It lighted him in an orange glow, making his bright blond hair looks almost red. The light was reflected in his blue eyes as well as on the planes of his face. He didn't look pleased.

Mathilda sighed wearily. God, her body hurt. Nevertheless, she forced herself to sit up on the bed. Alfred wouldn't wake up for no good reason after all. The inside of the tent was ridiculously cold despite the fire burning, and she hugged her furs close to her body. Her shift was still sticky and the linen bed sheets were slightly damp.

"What is it?" she asked wearily.

"I just talked with father," Alfred answered through gritted teeth. "The camp's buzzing with the news. You're going to marry?"

Somehow, somewhere, she had forgotten all about that. Maybe her dreams had sensed her distress about the whole thing and had tried to make her forget about it for a short while. But now, the truth came crashing down upon her full force. Her shoulders sagged visibly as if the truth were a real solid thing.

"Yes…" she muttered.

This answer didn't please Alfred. His face darkened further and he started pacing around, his feet stomping angrily on the thick carpets. He seemed at a loss for words, something very rare. Mathilda looked at him, unsure. She didn't want her brother angry. Right now, she wanted her brother to be kind and reassuring. But for all his qualities, Alfred had never been very good at comforting her nor anyone else.

"I'm sorry," Mathilda added with a sigh. "You know I don't want it. And you also know that father didn't ask my opinion on the matter."

"I know! But it pisses me off nonetheless! He's marrying you off for a bloody city to some unknown upstart who's stolen the Dutch throne!" He turned towards her, blue eyes blazing. "Did you know that? As soon as the news that his king was dead reached him, he took the throne for himself. The two princesses and their families ran in the middle of the night because they feared for their lives."

Mathilda didn't know what to say or think of that. In a flash, she remembered the Dutch king whose life her brother and she had saved what seemed like years ago. There had been an attempt at a rescue and she had slammed him over the head with a copper water pitcher. He had been unconscious when she left him last night (or was it early this morning?). Somehow, it had never occurred to her that this wounded man, Klaas van Rijn, the rightful king of the Dutch people, might have had a family. She had never really seen past his wounds at who he really was. And why should she? To her, he was only a wounded soldier in need of healing.

She rubbed her face tiredly. "That doesn't change anything."

"It changes the fact that you are going to marry someone who is most likely a commoner. Anyway. From what our spies have told us, most of the royal retinue has fled the castle after this man's ascend. We have no idea where they have gone to, but it is doubtful they have left the city. They're probably huddled somewhere in Amsterdam and waiting to run for safety at the first chance."

Mathilda looked up at her brother. "This is sad for them, but there's nothing we can do. Should they be found, they'd probably all be executed. By marrying me to this counsellor, father kind of says that he approves of him. This man is probably ready to bow to the emperor. The old royal family would be a threat to him."

"The soldiers are loyal to the king and his family, or so I've heard," Alfred announced, eyes sparkling with something close to mischief.

Mathilda knew that he brother had thought of something, that somehow the messed up situation could be bent to their advantage. Despite everything, she felt a twinge of excitement deep down inside her chest. She sat up straighter, listening.

"Should we return the rightful king to his throne, we could use his soldiers against father's army," Alfred said, lowering his voice. There was nobody but them inside the tent. The wind was howling outside, making it improbable for anyone passing by to overhear him. Yet he had to be cautious. He kneeled beside his sister's bed, eyes intent. "Can't you see? This is the break we've been waiting for. I know our army, how everything works on the inside. Even with fewer men, with my knowledge, we could defeat the emperor. We could put an end to this madness."

She was holding her breath, she realised absentmindedly. This talk, it was nothing if not treasonous. Her heart beat so fast she feared it might leap out of her chest. This was excitement mingled with fear. Somehow, their father had unknowingly given them a mean to overturn him. It was almost too good to be true.

"It can't be that easy," Mathilda said. She was always cautious, always trying to think things through. It annoyed her brother sometimes, but right now it could save their lives. However, the allure of it all was easily clouding her mind. An end to the war! It had been her most cherished dream for as long as she could remember marching with the war host.

Alfred shook his head. He wasn't smiling, but he had lost his grim expression. "I never said it would be easy. But at least we've been provided with an opening. We won't be marching for another fortnight that's for sure. And if the weather doesn't change too much, it will be another fortnight before we reach Amsterdam. We have at least a month to come up with a good plan."

"This seems like an awfully short time…" Nevertheless, Mathilda smiled. "But it's something. At least there is hope." She grimaced. "I don't want to marry this man…"

"You won't," Alfred said decisively as he got to his feet. "I won't allow it, don't worry. Now, get up and get dressed. You have a king to bring in the loop."

* * *

><p>Bringing a king in any loop was far easier said than done, especially when such king appeared to be as hard-headed as a mule, was wounded in body and pride and had been whacked in the head by the person supposed to bring him in the loop. Mathilda had no idea how she would manage such a feat, but she knew that she had to be very careful. She didn't really fear Klaas. He was still too weak to be of any danger after all. Those who could be a real problem, if not a threat, were everybody else in the medical tent; the wounded soldiers and the healers. It was so cramped inside the tent that it was almost impossible to have any privacy. How could she sit by the Dutch king's cot and talk to him about plots and treasons without anybody overhearing? No, when she broached the subject, it would have to be outside the tent.<p>

But for the moment, Mathilda knew that her fellow conspirators and she had to keep a low profile. It wouldn't do to simply rush into things. Her father most likely expected her to be reeling from the news of her incoming wedding. And she did reel, a little, even if Alfred had assured her that she would never marry that counsellor. So Mathilda had to do her best to appear cowed.

In normal circumstances, any young highborn lady about to marry had some kind of talks with older women about married life. With any war horst came many camp followers, and amongst these camp followers were wives of high and important officers. Mathilda sent for three of them even if she didn't want to have such talk. She wanted her father to believe she had accepted her fate. The three ladies looked very pleased to be sent for by the emperor's daughter, and an hour later, they crowded Mathilda's tent.

For the occasion, she had forsaken her man's clothes for a more ladylike fashion. She wore a dress of fine wool, very modest and very chaste, as was expected of an unmarried girl. She had combed her hair until it shone but hadn't dressed it. Only married women wore their hair up, or so she had heard.

Three good sturdy chairs had been brought for the ladies who wouldn't stoop to sit on rickety stools. They were dressed in beautiful silk garments lined with expensive furs. They had thick cloaks on to ward off the chill of the evening. Their hair had been coiffed quite elegantly, the kind of coiffure that probably take hours to realise. They also wore thick perfumes that filled the tent. One smelled of rose soap, the other of coarse foreign spices and the last one of overly-ripe fruits. They were old enough to be her mother, and one of them had been married twice. Yet despite her first misgivings, Mathilda couldn't deny that the women were nice enough. They prattled on while holding porcelain teacups, laughing discretely behind paper fans. With each of them had come a handmaid and a bodyguard, which stood awkwardly at the back of the tent.

Mathilda sat on her own chair facing the three women, trying to look dignified and ladylike. She had known how to hold herself like a real lady once, but years of war had made her forget almost everything. Don't slouch; men don't like women who bend their back as if they carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. Don't take huge gulps of tea; it's not polite. Smile; you have straight white teeth and men like when women smile at their jokes! Don't laugh too loud however; it betrays ill breading. And please, do pay attention when men talk! They adore being the centre of attention!

She might have yet to marry, but Mathilda knew men alright. She probably knew them a lot better than these three nice but empty-headed women. When you spend years dressing wounds for low and high born soldiers, you start to know them. She knew that they liked to have her attention when they talked of their heroics. She knew they liked to be consoled and pitied and called brave. But she also knew how to ease their pain, how to reassure them, how to give them confidence and make them brave for real when came the time to saw off a limb. But of course, Mathilda didn't say any of that out loud. These gentile women would probably have fainted at the mention of a bone saw after all. She nodded and smiled gratefully, thanking them for their wise counsel. Women too liked to be praise and to be the centre of attention, apparently.

These well-bred women must have had added something else than one drop of milk to their tea, because their faces soon flushed and they giggled more often. Whatever liquor they might have slipped in their beverage, it gave them courage to mention the most important aspect of a marriage: baby making.

By that time, Mathilda was growing tired of their company. They were nice, but she hated how she had to guard herself around them; how she had to mind how she sat, how she drank, how she spoke. Her corset had been cinched too tight, making it hard to breathe and squeezing her ribs. Even if she had slept most of the day, she still felt bone weary. She wanted to go to the medical tent to talk to the wounded soldiers, to monitor their progress, to make sure they had everything they needed.

Of course she knew were babies came from, she answered politely with a nod when the subject was finally brought up. She was a healer; she was expected to know these things. Nevertheless, the three older women felt the need describe quite in details how it was supposed to be done. Mathilda found herself blushing stupidly. Men, wounded or not, tended to love to boast about their prowess in bed. She had heard thousands of times the way they had bedded that maid or that woman or their wife. Somehow, even if they talked about it in a cruder manner, it embarrassed her more to hear these ladies talk about it. They were trying to be serious but could hardly keep a straight face. There was no way Mathilda could tell them to zip it, so she had to suffer through it. She kept her eyes lowered on her empty teacup, willing the blush on her face to disappear. She suddenly wished she had someone her age to talk to about this; someone who would tell her things straight.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the three charming ladies took their leave. They were quite drunk, and one of them needed her bodyguard to hold her arm as she walked out of the emperor's daughter's tent. Mathilda saw them off, smiling and thanking them again for sharing their infinite wisdom. She hadn't learnt much to be honest, but thanking them was the polite thing to do.

Once she was alone again in her tent, she loosened her corset and wriggled out of her dress. She changed into a more loose-fitting dress of comfortable wool and braided her hair. The rain had stopped sometime during her talk with the married women and she had a mind to visit the medical tent once before going to bed. She hesitated before taking a decision. Even if she were to get married (which wouldn't happen), it didn't change anything. She was still a healer deep down inside, and she had responsibilities towards the wounded men in that tent. Furthermore, only she knew who was the mysterious soldier who had the cot at the far back of the tent. If Alfred was right, he was the key that would stop this war. She had to make sure he got all the care he required.

And so she put on a fur-trimmed red cloak and left her tent.

* * *

><p>Klaas was no longer unconscious when she walked to his cot. Her layers of skirts hindered her progress as she walked between the narrow rows of beds. The wounded soldiers, her patients, looked at her with wide eyes as she made her way towards the back of the tent. Most of them had never seen her wearing anything else but trousers and doublets. Most of them had probably never fully realised that she was a woman underneath all that. But Mathilda only smiled at their questioning looks and thanked them when they congratulated her on her forthcoming wedding. It galled her that they knew of her wedding. She had wanted to keep it low for the moment, but the word had spread. She should have known. Nothing remained secret for long in a war encampment after all.<p>

She sat beside the Dutch king's pallet. He looked at her frankly, his amber eyes hiding his thoughts well. He was sitting, his back propped up by some pillows and bunched pieces of cloth. There was still a bandage around his head to protect the deep cut on his forehead she had sewn shut. He had been given some drab linen tunic that had once been dark grey. His face was pale but resolute. His jaw was set as if he expected some kind of blow. He had crossed his arms over his chest. Despite being bedbound for two days, he hadn't wasted away yet. His arms were still thick with taut muscles and his chest puffed out with pride.

"Good evening," Mathilda said coolly, trying to keep her composure.

She had no idea why she felt suddenly uneasy around her patient. His attitude hadn't changed; he still looked at her coldly as if he expected her to strangle him in his sleep. But something had changed in his eyes and she couldn't put her finger on it. She would have to proceed with caution.

Klaas didn't say anything as Mathilda examined the wound on his forehead. He endured with his teeth still clenched, keeping his arms tightly crossed above his chest. The skin around the wound was tender, yet he didn't even wince when she prodded at it gently with the tip of her fingers. It was healing nicely, and the stitches would probably be removed in a week. She said so to him. He only hummed.

Then they sat in awkward silence. Around them, the wounded were being given their supper by the healers. Some of the poor men had to be fed while others managed to eat on their own. Dinner and supper time was always a cheery affair in the medical tent. Food seemed to bring courage and hope back to these men. It was also an excuse to chat amiably between them, telling jokes and retelling stories. The healers and some of their helpers walked through the rows of cots, handing copper bowls of beef stew with a hard black heel of bread. It was good food, for once. The stew was thick with actual morsels of beef and vegetables. No doubt the emperor was feeling generous after his stroke of luck with the Dutch counsellor.

A young helper handed a bowl to Klaas, but Mathilda snatched it before the man could grab it. Klaas glared at her but didn't say anything as the boy walked away now that his duty was done. Mathilda kept the warm bowl of stew on her knees, feeling the warmth of it seeping through the many layers of her skirts. She half noticed the glare sent her way, but her eyes didn't leave the back of the retreating boy. Only when he was at the other side of the tent did she turn her attention to her patient. Klaas looked annoyed. He was hungry, but too proud to ask for his meal.

Mathilda smiled sweetly. "We must talk," she said simply. "I'll give you your food, but you must promise to hear me out. Can you do that?"

"What is it you want to talk about?" Klaas asked with a sneer. He spoke in a low voice, afraid his harsh accent would betray him for a foreigner.

"You are the king of the Dutch people, are you not?"

If this question took him aback, Klaas did a marvellous job at hiding it. Not a muscle on his face twitched. But something shifted in his eyes. What betrayed him however was the delayed too casual shrug. "Are you mad, woman?" he spat. "Do I look like a king to you?"

Mathilda also kept her voice low to make sure she wouldn't be overheard. However, the ruckus in the tent made by the high-spirited soldiers enjoying their good food covered whatever she said. Nobody even glanced their way.

"You are Niklaas van Rijn," Mathilda continued as if he hadn't spoken up. She looked at him straight in the eye. It usually embarrassed her to look people that way, but today she pushed her squeamishness aside. She needed this man if she wanted to put an end to this ridiculous war. Klaas seemed to be the kind of person who respected strength. If she quivered in front of him, he would never take her seriously. "The attack that took place last night was a rescue attempt for you. I'm sorry I hit you with that water pitcher, but I couldn't risk for you to call out to your friends. Logically speaking, there was little chance you could have made it out of the camp alive anyway. It grieves me to say your rescuers are all dead. Better dead than captured however, for you know what the Emperor does to his very few captives. He would have made them tell him what they were doing here, therefore betraying your presence amongst us."

She quietened after delivering this news to give time to Klaas to take it all in. If his face hadn't changed when his identity had been revealed, it did change at this news. His expression tightened, his jaw clenched and his eyebrows furrowed. All his muscles seemed to knot up tightly as if he expected some kind of blow. His amber eyes darkened. He stayed silent however as he glared daggers at the canvas wall in front of him. He stayed silent for a very long time, brooding over what he had just heard. Then, finally, his body relaxed ever so slightly. His shoulders slumped, but his head remained held high. He turned his attention towards the woman sitting by his bedside.

"I see."

Mathilda didn't really know what she expected for an answer, but probably something more than two pitiful words. She only nodded however. Nobody dealt and lived with grief the same way after all. "This is not the only thing I have to tell you. Other grievous news, I'm sorry to say."

She was a bit surprised to realise that she was honestly sorry to bring him bad tidings. She handed him the bowl of stew to steel her nerves. Klaas accepted it, sniffed at it suspiciously then started eating. He used the bread to scoop up the stew. "What is it?" he asked after his third or fourth mouthful.

"Your people believe you dead. A man, a counsellor you probably know although I have no idea what his name might be, has taken your place on the throne. He now rules over your people. I believe you have two younger sisters, correct? They have fled somewhere safe in Amsterdam with their family."

Klaas stopped eating abruptly as if he had just bitten into something foul. His expression wasn't guarded this time as he turned his full attention to Mathilda. There was real alarm and fear in his eyes. It lasted for less than three seconds, then the alarm was replaced by steeliness. Mathilda felt sorry for him. She had no word of comfort.

"How do you know that?"

She hesitated for a second. "This counsellor who has taken your place, he has sent word to the Emperor, saying that he is ready to open Amsterdam's doors to his army for the winter. I believe he prefers for us to walk in peacefully rather than take his city by force, drive his people out and raid everything."

To her utmost surprise, Klaas laughed at that. It wasn't a joyful sound, but rather a bark of incredulity. He sat up straighter, glaring at her if this were somehow all her fault. "You're a bunch of assholes. You're going to walk into my city under the pretence of peace then sack everything. How can this fucking idiot believe the opposite?!"

Mathilda cringed at the hard words and glanced around, afraid someone might have overheard. But nobody looked their way.

"The man has asked for something to make sure the Emperor kept his word. He wanted the Emperor's son, but he refused. His daughter will be offered in marriage instead."

She studied her patient's face very carefully as she said these words. He knew her first name, but she was positive that he didn't know she was the Emperor's daughter. Klaas took this in a brooding silence.

"How do you know all that?" he asked in a suspicious tone. "Are secrets so poorly guarded in this camp?"'

"Oh, no, don't worry. I know only what I need to know. No word ever leaks out the Emperor's pavilion if it is not meant to do." She sighed. "Anyway, do you know this counsellor who took your throne?"

"I used to have tons of counsellors, some useless and some good. I'm not surprised to hear that one of them took the opportunity to steal my throne, but I have no idea which one it might be." Klaas' tone was bitter. His mouth was twisted in disgust. He looked down at the copper bowl still half full as if wondering how it had gotten here. Given half a chance, he'd probably flung it from him. "But I should have expected it…" he muttered darkly.

Mathilda realised that he was worried about his sisters. There was no way of knowing where they might be hiding or even if they were still alive. After their older brother, they were the direct heirs to the Dutch throne, and a big threat for the usurper.

Klaas didn't throw the bowl, but rather put it aside on the tiny bedside table with some care. By now, the stew had grown cold with a film of grease forming atop it. "I hope the Emperor's daughter gives hell to that bastard."

"She won't marry him," Mathilda said, unable to hide a smile. "She has a more important task to do, but she can't talk about it here because there are too many ears."

At first, Klaas didn't seem to register what he had just heard. Then, it hit him. He raised his head and looked at her, frowning and narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "This is way too fucked up," he lied back against the pillows with a deep sigh.

Gently, Mathilda helped him to lie down on the cot, pulling the blanket up to his chin. By now, the noises of supper had died down. The soldiers were full and drowsy. Most of them were already dozing off. It would be way too dangerous to talk further about her plan with her patient. Klaas looked too tired right now anyway. He was still healing, and he was also probably reeling from the news he had heard. He was acting tough, but the news about his sisters and the loss of his throne had clearly upset him. She gave him warm wine to help with his sleep. He muttered he'd prefer to have a beer, then fell asleep.


	7. Being good is hard Much harder than

_A/N: Well, I was supposed to update this story in December... looks like I'm only two months late The thing is, this story was never supposed to be this long. I haven't planned most of the plot, so plotholes appear a bit everywhere, annoying me to no end. Anyway! Thanks to everybody who has read, added to their favourites, and/or commented! __I appreciate it!_

**Being good is hard. Much harder than being bad.**

It was three days later that Klaas was strong enough to rise from his bed. By that time, he was growing restless and bored on his tiny cot. He was still weak though, but Mathilda had no good medical reason to refuse him. To be honest, she needed him out the medical tent as soon as possible. There were too many ears in there to have a private conversation anyway, and she had precious little time to spend with her patients. While Klaas laid on his cot, healing, she had been pestered by the older ladies who had come with the other camp followers. The news of her upcoming wedding had spread like fire in a dry field. Every married woman who wasn't a soldier or a healer wanted to congratulate her and to give her advice. They clustered around her from dawn to dusk, chattering endlessly and crowding her tent until she wanted to scream. Mathilda had never been a people person. Even in her youth, she had been ridiculously shy. She disliked strangers and talking to them was akin to torture. It probably came from being too sheltered, Alfred had told her once, and Mathilda was inclined to believe it. Before the war began, she had lived only with very close family and a few servants in one of her father's castle in London. There had been very few visitors. The faces rarely changed, and therefore she had grown used to see always the same people.

These women were mostly nice to be honest. Some sensed that Mathilda was shy, for they weren't too forceful with her. Others didn't sense it or simply didn't care. They barged inside her tent without being announced, asked her embarrassing questions or simply said embarrassing things. To her horror, she had realised that a lot of highborn ladies were as vulgar as lowborn soldiers. They said things that made her blush madly and to which she had no way to answer. Most of the ladies however didn't understand her passion for the healing arts. They didn't understand why she liked to spend her days in a crowded tent full of bloody stinky men to sew up their cuts, bound their wounds and cut off their rotten limbs. It wasn't something that was easily explained however. She had no ready words, so she gave up trying to make them understand. So, they focused on teaching her the most important womanly arts; such as dancing, sewing, painting and singing.

Mathilda was good at sewing; it was a lot easier to thread a needle through fabric than through skin after all. She found it relaxing and it allowed her mind to wander while her fingers worked. Dancing wasn't too bad either. She had loved dancing when she had been younger, and had been quite skilled at it. To her surprise, the steps came back to her fast. Her mind might have forgotten but her body had not. She found she quite liked the dancing lessons and the ladies were pleased with her success (and probably very pleased to report all of this to her father, who seemed uncharacteristically anxious about this marriage). Alfred was a very good dance partner. Her brother was the kind of man who was perfect. He succeeded at the first try at everything he tried. It sometimes infuriated her, but it usually meant he could help if she had difficulties. Alfred was a good dancer. He was tall and graceful and never stepped on her toes. He could even be gallant when he wasn't busy teasing her. Some of the ladies looked quite jealous when she danced with her brother. He was popular amongst the female part of the army after all.

Painting and singing were two very different matters however. She was horrible at both. She had a ridiculously soft voice which was good for lullabies and very little else. As for painting, while her hand was steady as she held the brush, it refused to form even the simplest of shapes. A circle became an oval and a square a rectangle. Flowers looked like formless blotches of colour on the canvas, and portraits looked like faces straight out of a nightmare. And since singing and painting weren't manly at all, Alfred had no way of helping her. His singing voice was horrible anyway; high and whiny as it was. As for his painting, he had once said that he preferred sculpting; sculpting into human bodies with his sword that is.

While other young ladies were taught French and Latin, Mathilda was taught Dutch. It had never occurred to her that she might have to learn that harsh language actually. But she realised it was only expected of her; her husband was a Dutchman after all. He might be able to understand English, but that didn't mean everybody else at court did. Younger, Mathilda had been taught French and spoke it fluently, but Dutch was a very different matter. While French was all soft syllables, Dutch was harsh and hard guttural noises. With practice, she didn't doubt she'd manage to write and read it, but speaking it properly would take years. She knew she wouldn't marry that Dutch counsellor, of course, but she nonetheless made an effort to learn.

So, amongst all this whirlwind of new learning, Mathilda had very little time for her patients. But she was glad when Klaas asked her if he could leave his sickbed. She accepted, because he was strong and growing stronger every day. A man like him needed to be up and about to gain back his strength. Lying in bed would only distress him and perhaps even hinder his healing. He had to be cautious however not to overtire himself.

Mathilda might have been busy, but the needlework she had to practice everyday had given her ample time to think. After men had been released from the medical tent, they were usually given back to the unit to which they belonged before being wounded. If they had been crippled or somehow their injury prevented them from going back to their commander, they were given other tasks. No man was allowed to remain idle for long in the host. She had witnessed a legless man given kitchen duties. The high cook had said that the man could sit on a stool and cut vegetables or fruits or meat or even stir broths and stews and soups. So, once released from the medical tent, Klaas would have to 'reintegrate' his unit. The problem was that the idiot had no unit. That he was an enemy! Mathilda couldn't let him wander around the camp twiddling his thumbs. People would ask questions. So, she had come up with a very simple plan: this wounded soldier she had nursed back to health had suffered a concussion. He experienced violent headaches and long-term memory losses. He could hardly even remember his own name, much less the unit to which he used to belong to. He knew he was a fighter and could use a sword well. And so, Mathilda, in her infinite kindness and love for her patients, had decided to take him on as a bodyguard. She was ever so scared after the sneak attack on the camp last week.

This was what she told the other healers and what she wrote in the ledger. She knew her father would see this sooner or later, but she was quite confident that he wouldn't question it. If anything, he'd probably be relieved that this man be put to good work despite his confused state of mind. God knew the other healers seemed to approve of her decision. There were so many people in the war host that it was impossible to know all their names and their faces. Even the generals had long ago lost count of their soldiers. Alfred, to strengthen her story, said here and there that he vaguely remembered the wounded man from the battlefield, although he'd be dammed if he knew which unit he belonged to.

And so, Klaas was given clean clothes, a good jacket and a broadsword. Mathilda had told him of her plan, of course, so he could play along. It hadn't seemed to please him at first. Becoming a lowly bodyguard after being a king was quite the insult, but he couldn't come up with a better plan himself. There was no way he could leave the camp on his own, for he'd be captured again by one of the emperor's patrols, or worse, one of the Dutch patrols sent from Amsterdam. Should he be captured, what would the counsellor who had taken his throne do? If the two princesses had fled the royal castle, it meant that they knew the counsellor would cling to his new seat with everything he had. The real king would be brought to him and probably executed on the spot. Nobody would mourn a man already thought to be dead.

Klaas, despite all appearances, was smart. He had gritted his teeth at Mathilda's calm reasoning before finally admitting that she might be right. And anyway, he wasn't strong enough yet to chance an escape. The part about the headaches hadn't been a lie either; the wound sustained to the forehead pained him often and he stubbornly refused to take anything to dull the throbbing. If he didn't get captured by a patrol, he might simply fall off his horse, break his leg and die somewhere alone.

Mathilda hadn't told him exactly who she was, but Klaas had more or less guessed. Very few people could actually decide to take on a bodyguard with nobody questioning the decision. Very few people would also be privy to the emperor's plans. She was a woman, she ordered people around without realising it, she knew of the emperor's plans before everybody else and she was soon to be married. He hadn't asked her directly if she was a princess, and she hadn't answered straight, but they both knew the truth.

Theoretically, Klaas' station was above Mathilda's, and she should have been the one taking the orders. Practically however, this was impossible. Klaas' true identity had to remain hidden at all costs. It was easy to see it didn't please the man to have to bow to a girl. His face was set in a perpetual frown of displeasure and he sneered whenever she turned her back. But he did as he was told like the good bodyguard he was supposed to be. His very life depended on it, and Klaas van Rijn _wanted_ to live.

"How long before I can leave?" Klaas asked for perhaps the tenth time that day.

It had snowed earlier in the morning, but it had all melted as the sun rose higher in the sky. Snow had turned the ground to mud. The sky was still a dark grey, promising either more snow or cold rain. The camp had been lured into a lull by the moody weather. It was cold outside and damp inside no matter how many fires were lit. Soldiers who had guard duty outside huddled under their thick cloaks while looking miserable. The servants hurried between tents, their breaths making little puffs of white in front of their faces. A hush seemed to have fallen at the same time as the snow did.

Mathilda didn't really mind the cold. She had never. In fact, she preferred winter to summer. Winter would be her favourite season if it didn't mean long cruel marches in the snow, frozen toes and fingers, colds and runny noses. Winter was peaceful and clean. The cold air seemed to cleanse everything. She longed for a winter when she could simply wear a thick cloak and walk around in the snow, breathing in the cold air and taking in the beauty of the white landscapes.

She looked up from her sewing at Klaas' question. There were only the two of them in her tent right now. Technically, it wasn't proper for an unmarried woman to be alone with a man, but this rule didn't seem to be taken in consideration when the man was a bodyguard. "At least another five days. You're healing, but you're still not strong enough to ride a fortnight to reach Amsterdam. And anyway, you'd only get killed somewhere along the way."

Klaas glared at her as his hand rested on the cross guard of his sword. The borrowed clothes he had on didn't look very good on him. He wore a red woollen tunic, faded but of good quality, and white trousers tucked in knee-high leather boots (those had been his). Over the tunic he wore an old leather jacket, brown and similar to the one he had been wearing when he had been found buried under the corpses. Klaas was a tall man, much taller than Mathilda had first thought, and he was broad of shoulders. The tunic looked a bit too tight on him, and red wasn't his colour. The trousers were old and threadbare at the knees. He wore a scarf, lined blue and white. It had been rolled up and hidden in one of his coat's pockets and had escaped most of the damages his other clothes had sustained during the battle. However, it had had to be washed because it had smelt of death. Klaas refused to throw it away, and Mathilda had given it to one of the washerwomen just to be nice. The scarf didn't fit with the rest of his clothes however. Right now, poor Klaas van Rijn looked more like a ragged sellsword rather than a king. Yet he held himself with pride, and being told that he could be killed like a common human being insulted him.

"I'm not that weak," he retorted.

Mathilda sighed deeply and rested the embroidery she had been working on on her lap. They have had that conversation thousands of times already. She was growing tired of it. Either Klaas was being ridiculously stubborn or she was mistaken in thinking he was smart.

"I never said you were weak. Listen, I have a plan in mind. You'll be told of it as soon as it is ready. I know you dislike the situation, but so do I."

Klaas snorted. "You're the one to talk. You aren't the one having to play the slow-witted bodyguard."

She had to swallow back a smile. "I would play that role gladly if it meant keeping my head on my shoulders," she retorted. "However, I wasn't the one idiotic enough to get captured by the enemy."

He bristled at that. "Of course not! You don't fight, so there's no chance you could be taken prisoner."

"Take heed then; give up your sword and pick up a suturing needle."

Klaas' only answer to this jape was a glare. Mathilda only smiled in return. They lapsed back in silence as he stood by the door with his back straight and a bored look on his face. Mathilda resumed her needlework. She felt restless. She didn't want to sit there meekly to pull a thread. A good walk outside in the cold would be bracing, but outside the few people there would feel forced to congratulate her again on her wedding. It hadn't begun yet and she was already tired of it.

"What does Amsterdam look like?" Mathilda asked without raising her eyes.

"It's a city that's built on water," Klaas answered after a silence. "There are a lot of bridges and houses are built close to the water edge. Traffic is mostly barges on the canals. It's big, with a lot of famous painters and famous places."

There was some kind of pride in the man's voice, alongside a point of sadness. Mathilda realised he probably missed his home city more than he showed. She hesitated, not knowing if talking about it made him feel better or if it simply twisted the knife in the wound.

"I've heard it is beautiful," she said carefully. "Holland seems like a beautiful country from what I've seen so far."

Klaas favoured her with a suspicious glance. "It'll be ugly if your army keeps on trampling and destroying everything."

"It is not _my_ army," Mathilda replied hotly. "I'm sick of that war as much as you are. I only want to go home, but my father will hear none of it. He won't rest until all of Europe is his. In spring, he will march on France. And if France falls, he will have accomplished his life's dream. Don't think for a minute that he will stop at Europe however. He already owns a colony in the New World. He will probably try to retake the one he's lost. Next, he might turn his attention towards Asia. Bringing China or, heaven forbid, Russia, in his empire would make him nearly invincible. Even if he were to die, someone would take up his work to continue. It wouldn't be my brother or me, but someone else would. I only want to go home, and for these people to go home too. We've been away from England for almost ten years now. Some of our soldiers have children they have never seen."

She hadn't meant to say all that to be honest. She just didn't want him to think that she approved of her father's work. She wanted him to know that she hated war, that it made her heartsick and sad.

"If your father dies," Klaas said, "won't your brother inherit his throne?"

Mathilda shook her head. "Alfred is a bastard. If I were a man, the throne would be passed down to me. As a woman however, I have no right to it. My children would be next in line if my father doesn't have any more children."

"Then teach your children to despise war too."

"Oh, please, you can't be that naïve. If I were to have children, my father – or someone like him – would foster them and turn them into conquerors too."

Klaas didn't say anything, and Mathilda was grateful. All this talk of never-ending war depressed her. She was usually a cheerful person, but these past few days, reality had found a way under her skin. She wished Alfred or Dan would be here to cheer her up. Alfred was always witty and Dan had a way to make her laugh. Both of them had been sent out on patrols however and would be back only on the morrow or the day after. Klaas wasn't of very good company sadly. He was always brisk and sometimes even a bit cruel. He never guarded his tongue and didn't mince his words for politeness' sake. His accent made his speech seem even harsher, and it had taken her quite a long time to grow accustomed to it.

A loud clanging noise had Mathilda nearly jump out of her skin. Her needled pricked her thumb but the adrenaline coursing through her body hid the pain well. She got to her feet without even realising it. Beside the door, Klaas was frowning, one hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.


	8. Courage Is Not The Absence Of Fear

_A/N: __This chapter is quite long, but I think you deserve a long chapter for your great patience! Thank you so much for reading!_

**Courage Is Not The Absence Of Fear**

The sound finally registered as a bell, and Mathilda relaxed with a heavy sigh. She had been so strung up these last few days that even the smallest thing had her running in a panic. It was guilt, remorse and fear mixed all together in a deadly poison. She had always felt some kind of guilt because of that stupid war, but now remorse had been added to it at the thought of betraying her father. And that thought brought in the kind of quiet fear that was always present in the back of one's mind, always ready to creep up at the least expected moment. Mathilda felt like she had been sleepwalking through the last few days, her mind constantly on the plan her brother and her had been expending in order to overthrow their father.

"What is that?" Klaas asked, ever poised.

Mathilda kind of resented him for his calm. He was amongst enemy, alone and injured and barely armed, yet he wasn't nervous enough to jump at shadows. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her ruffled nerves. She cleared her throat, not wanting to let him see how undone she was feeling.

"A bell," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "It summons everybody in the camp except for the sentries. It usually means the Emperor wants to address his people."

Klaas snorted in derision and muttered something in his language. Mathilda didn't even try to understand. She put on her warmest cloak; a thick rectangle of dark blue velvet with a hood trimmed in fur, all the while wondering why the soldiers were being summoned. That bell wasn't used very often. It could either mean good or bad news. There was no on-going battle, so it didn't mean news from the frontline. It wasn't either the warning bell, the huge bell that sounded like a funeral gong and warned the camp of approaching enemies. Mathilda had no idea what was going on, and so she left her tent in a mild state of agitation and apprehension. As befit her bodyguard, Klaas followed her close behind. He walked like a soldier with his head held high and his eyes missing very little. One couldn't say that he looked proud in these shabby clothes, but he certainly looked confident.

Having a bodyguard was nothing out of the ordinary for high-ranking people. It actually had been a bit shocking that the princess of the empire walked around camp unescorted most of the time. And so, nobody looked twice at the tall man shadowing the Emperor's daughter. Nobody knew his face or even his name, but it didn't bother them. There were so many soldiers in the army that it was impossible to know them all. Everybody assumed that somebody else knew him and that he was one of them.

_They all are so sure of themselves and of their security that I can smuggle a stranger amongst them and they don't even notice him, _Mathilda thought crazily as she entered the camp centre.

Thousands of soldiers were massing in the camp centre where only a flagpole stood. This place was devoid of anything and made especially for such gatherings. The Emperor rarely took the time to speak to his troops, but when he did, he wanted to make sure that they were all around to hear. The place stank of unwashed bodies packed together, of blood and old festering wounds, of polished metal and leather boots, of churned earth and cold wind. The soldiers, all of different ranks and backgrounds, clustered together as they muttered amongst themselves, wondering what they were doing here. It was cold and damp. Most of them would have preferred to be warm in their tent by their fire with their wine and lover.

They parted for the princess as she arrived with her bodyguard. Soldiers bowed their head to her. They all knew she was a good healer. Most of them had been patched up by her at least once. They were used to her wearing trousers and a man's tunic while she busied herself with bandages, needles and bleeding wounds. Now that she was wearing a simple but expensive-looking dress underneath a thick cloak, they saw her as their princess and not an ordinary healer. It wasn't all respect she saw in their eyes, but also fear and even some ill-concealed resentment. Some of these soldiers hated her, as if she were the one sending them to their death on the battlefield. Others, who believed in the Emperor's cause, stared at her with open admiration. Mathilda hated all that attention. She wanted to raise the hood of her cloak over her face so it would hide her face. She didn't want to be hated or loved by these people. She just wanted to go home.

She reached the front of the gathering where the other nobles were standing, a bit apart from the common folk. The smell here got a bit better, although it was choked by fragrant perfumes. Klaas snorted but thankfully didn't comment. The Emperor had yet to make his appearance, and so the nobles were chattering together. Those closest to Mathilda felt obliged to congratulate her again on her oncoming wedding, and she was forced to smile and thank them. By God, she wanted to scream into their faces that she didn't want – wouldn't – marry a stranger just to help her father's cause. Hell, if she could, she'd marry a rebel if only to hinder her father. But she had to grit her teeth and smile pleasantly. Klaas' presence behind her seemed to burn a hole in the back of her head. The weight of her secret upcoming betrayal lay heavy on her shoulders. She felt that, behind each smile, each courtesy, each laugh, everybody knew what she planned to do. Her body was tense with the fear of a knife finding its way into her back. Sweat glistened on her forehead despite the cold weather. She wondered what would happen if she simply fainted.

One glance over her shoulder told her that she better not do something as foolish as fainting however. Klaas was glaring at her, and she could almost hear him hiss to pull her shit together. Fainting would draw attention upon them, and it was better for him if nobody noticed him. Being a lowly bodyguard usually meant people didn't glance at him twice, but a fainting princess next to him might. Mathilda swallowed thickly but nodded slightly at him. She curled her hands into fists, digging her short blunt nails into the flesh of her palms. The small pain helped a bit, and her mind cleared. There was no way that someone else apart from Alfred, Dan and she knew of their plan. They hadn't breathed a word of it to anybody, and she knew that the two men would keep this secret to themselves. The consequences of plotting against the Emperor were too dire to even joke about.

In a flurry of flags, cloaks and swords, the Emperor finally made his appearance. There was a wooden raised dais on which he climbed, his four most loyal bodyguards following closely behind. Other bodyguards placed themselves around the dais, face hard and weapons at the ready. Mathilda, due her title of princess, could have had a place on the dais next to her father, but she preferred to stay on ground level. She didn't want everybody's attention to be on her. Furthermore, it would have been out of character for her to show herself beside her father. It very rarely happened, since father and daughter didn't get along very well, and it was no mystery to anybody in the army.

And so, Mathilda remained standing amongst the other noblemen at the foot of the dais, her own bodyguard close behind her. Klaas' breathing was hard and fast and, even without looking at him, she could sense how tensed he was. It all made sense, after all. Here was the man who was threatening his whole country and his countrymen. Here was the man who was planning to take over the whole continent by sheer force of arms. Here was the man guilty of the deaths of hundreds of thousands men, women and children. Here was the man who, given half the chance, would execute the King of the Dutch without a second thought.

She turned slightly towards Klaas, wondering if bringing him here with her was a grave mistake. What if he lost his temper and jumped on the dais to sheathe his sword in the Emperor's throat? Mathilda didn't know about Klaas' swordplay skills, but no matter how good he was, he didn't stand a chance against the four highly-trained bodyguards surrounding the Emperor. She elbowed him in the ribs and, when he glared down at her, she narrowed her eyes at him, silently ordering him to be still. If looks could kill, she'd probably be lying in a puddle of her own blood by now, but Klaas nodded his head minutely. He remained tense as a bowstring however, but there was nothing else Mathilda could do to avoid disaster.

Klaas' anger was shortly forgotten as soon as the Emperor started to talk. The old man was a gifted orator, able to make himself heard without shouting. His voice carried almost to the back of the big crowd. His words were precise, easy to understand even for the uneducated peasants and foot soldiers, and straight to the point. He wasn't the kind of orator to pace around, waving his fists and shouting. He never insulted his audience. He looked even kind of fatherly as his dark blue eyes swept the upturned faces of the people listening to him. There was some murmuring of agreement and nodding amongst the crowd.

Mathilda didn't really listen to whatever it was her father was saying. She had heard enough of his speeches to know where this was going. It was cold out here in the open, and the wind seemed to seep through her cloak and clothes. She wanted to go back to the relative warmth of her tent. It was only the palpable shift of the mood that had her raise her head.

The Emperor was talking about prisoners. Apparently, the sentries had caught two men late last night that were snooping around the camp. Evidently not English but Dutch, they were captured immediately and brought in for questioning.

Mathilda's throat clenched in sudden fear. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead as she glanced wide eyed at Klaas. He too looked shocked. His skin had turned white and he was gritting his teeth.

They both stared in silent horror as the Emperor motioned to someone standing on the other side of the dais. Two ragged men were then roughly escorted up the stairs by a pair of burly soldiers. The two prisoners had clearly been beaten up. There were blooming bruises all over their skin. Their clothes, which clearly had once been of good quality, resembled dirty rags. They stood barefoot on the unpolished wood of the dais, shivering in the cold air. One had fair blond hair matted with blood while the other had light brown hair. They were both quite tall, but stood with their shoulders hunched as a vain attempt to ward off the cold. Their hands were bound behind their backs with hemp ropes.

A stunned murmur rippled through the crowd. People muttered amongst themselves, speculating as to why the Emperor had brought these two men to their attention. Usually, caught spies were given to the master torturers without much fanfare and their bodies were burnt afterward.

Something flew above the crowd and hit the blond prisoner right in the forehead. The man gasped in pain as a fresh wound started bleeding. As if it had been some kind of signal, other projectiles were thrown. Rocks, mud, twigs, even a boot, flew over English heads to hit the two prisoners. The Emperor had safely taken a step back to avoid being hit. He had a satisfied expression on his face.

Mathilda stared in horror. Her father made no move to stop the angry mob. The prisoners were being pelted and stoned in front of her very eyes. One of them fell to his knees after one good hit to the side of the head. Blood poured anew, bright red against the brownish colour of older blood.

Klaas would ruin everything; she knew it with only one glance to the man. His hand was reaching for the sword at his belt and his body had tensed further. Three or four steps would bring him to the dais. In the hysteria caused by the stoning, guards maybe wouldn't notice him right away. And what would happen once he jumped on the platform? Even if by some miracle he managed to get close enough to stab the Emperor, he'd be killed on the spot right after. Killing the Emperor would solve nothing, Mathilda knew for sure. They had a plan, but it would be ruined if Klaas did something stupid.

Despite being wounded and weakened, she had no illusion that she could restrain him should he go berserk. She was tall and strong for a woman, but he was a born and trained warrior with bloodlust in his eyes. He looked so crazed right now that she wouldn't be surprised if he stabbed her if she tried to stop him.

And so she ignored Klaas, turned to the dais and walked towards it purposefully. The bodyguards surrounding it glanced at her with surprise, but knew her and therefore didn't try to stop her. They expected her to walk around the dais to use the stairs at the back, near to where her father was standing. But Mathilda didn't go around. Instead, putting her gloved hands on top of the platform, she hoisted herself up with some difficulty. Her dress and petticoats hindered her a bit, but she nonetheless managed to make it. She stood up, panting, and was now directly in front of the two prisoners, directly in the path of the thrown objects. Some mud splattered on the skirt of her dress, but all the missiles stopped at once. The top of the dais was littered by good-sized rocks and other miscellaneous objects sharp or big enough to bruise. People in the crowd gaped at her as if she had just appeared out of thin air.

Mathilda stared back at the hundreds of faces, violet eyes wide. She hated being looked at, she hated when people took notice of her. Right now, she was standing on a dais as if she were about to give a speech. There were people massed in front of her, and people at her back. She could feel their curious eyes as if they were crawling insects all over her skin. There hadn't been any real plan in her mind as she scrambled up, but the overwhelming panic of being stared at at least had one good side: she fainted promptly.

* * *

><p>The sharp odour of smelling salt made her sneeze before she opened her eyes. She rolled to her left side to get away from the pungent smell, batting her hand at whomever it was who held the small bottle. Mathilda knew what it looked like even with her eyes closed. She had used these salts on many ladies of the court whenever they fainted due to a too-tight corset or the sight of blood. It was something a physician working at a court full of ladies had to keep close.<p>

"You're finally awake," a voice said, mildly amused and mildly annoyed.

She recognized it immediately, and rolled to her other side as her eyes flew open in surprise. Alfred was standing by the bed, holding in his big hand the small glass bottle of smelling salt. His face reflected the intonation of his voice; mildly amused and mildly annoyed.

"You're back," she said with a large smile.

"It seems so. I came into the camp to discover it mostly empty. I was told by a stable lad that the Emperor was entertaining his people. I arrived just in time to see you faint and take an ungraceful plunge off the dais. What the fuck were you thinking, standing there?"

The grim reminder of what had happened wiped the smile from Mathilda's face. Yes, the dais, the projectiles flying, the upturned faces of the people and the prisoners. In her mad panic to stop Klaas from doing something stupid, she had scrambled up the dais to stop the stoning of the two captured Dutchmen.

Finally wide awake, she sat up in bed, pushing back the bedcovers. She looked around wildly, and spotted her disgruntled bodyguard standing by the tent door. In the dim candle light, Klaas looked pale but resolute. His back was to them, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword while the other hanged limply by his thigh. She could tell by the set of his shoulders that he had finally relaxed a little. He thankfully wasn't likely to go berserk on her.

"What happened to the two prisoners?" Mathilda asked warily.

Alfred put down the bottle of smelling salts on the bedside table. He shrugged his broad shoulders before crossing his arms over his chest, staring down at her. His blue eyes were hard and all trace of mild amusement had vanished. Mathilda realised that he was furious at her, but was holding his temper tightly in leash. She wanted to hide under the covers to escape from that hard glare.

"What were you thinking?" he almost hissed in his fury. "You could have been killed, you realise that? Someone could have thrown something at your face and it would have cracked your skull. Or you could have broken your neck by falling off the platform if a soldier hadn't caught you in time. One of the prisoners could have tried to attack you. More important however, you attracted attention to yourself. You never do that. There's gonna be gossip about this all around camp for the next month." Alfred sighed deeply and ran a hand in his bright blond hair. It calmed him a bit and he gentled his tone. "Look, Mattie, we have to lay low, that's all."

"I know…" she murmured, looking down at her lap. Her gown had been removed, probably by one of the court ladies or a fellow physician, and she sat in her white shift. "I just didn't want those two poor men to be stoned to death…"

"They're dead," Klaas' voice cut in the silence. He turned towards them, but there was no anger or animosity on his long face. "They were beheaded. It's a good clean death for warriors. Better than being stoned by animals like common trollops."

Mathilda's eyes burned with unshed tears. Of course the two prisoners would be executed despite her little show. They were only that after all; prisoners, caught spies, Dutchmen, all of which were punishable by death. And yet here Klaas was almost thanking her, as if being beheaded made them less dead. She tried to reason herself that warriors liked the idea of dying heroically, that it was some kind of honour to them. But she wasn't a warrior and couldn't understand. To her, dead was dead, no matter how it happened. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Alfred and Klaas were looking at her, not with pity and not with disgust, but with something akin to speculation. They seemed to be calculating or evaluating her reaction. Did they expect her to burst into tears? Or to shrug it all off?

"She's a kid," Klaas said, turning towards Alfred. His tone of voice showed that he was almost exasperated, as if they had had that argument many times before.

"She's nineteen," Alfred countered.

"That's what I'm saying. She's a kid."

Mathilda looked at them, wide eyed. They were obviously talking about her, as if she weren't even in the same room as them. They were talking together as if they had been doing so for a long time. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what this was all about. The smelling salts had no only waken her up, but they were giving her one hell of a headache. The inside of her nostrils was dried and itchy. (What would those two idiots think if she were to pick her nose right in front of them, eh?)

"What are you even talking about?" she asked, not liking to be left in the dark.

"Nothing that should worry you," Alfred answered rapidly, throwing a warning glare towards the grumpy Dutchman. "Just know that father wasn't very impressed by your little stunt."

She slumped at the reminder of the foolish act she had just performed. No doubt, the whole camp was buzzing with the news of the Emperor's daughter making a fool of herself. She was surprised her father hadn't been the one waiting for her to wake up in her tent to give her an earful. She wondered again what madness had possessed her to climb up on that stupid dais. Of course, she wanted to put an end to the humiliation of the two Dutchmen, but now it seemed a feeble excuse. Still, she remembered their two pathetic forms shivering in the cold, and she guessed that, given the chance, she would do the exact same thing again. Klaas had said the two prisoners had been executed swiftly and painlessly. That didn't make them less dead, but at least it was less humiliating and painful that way.

"I've got news for you, by the way," Alfred added. He crossed his arms, eyes intent. "That guy you're supposed to marry, the Dutch counsellor, he's supposed to come here tomorrow to meet father and to meet you."

Judging by his expression, Klaas apparently hadn't been informed of that. His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he didn't say anything. Mathilda could tell by the twitching muscle in his jaw that he just wanted to meet that counsellor who had usurped his throne to kill him. That man would know Klaas at first sight, of course, which meant Mathilda couldn't bring the man when she met her soon-to-be husband.

"I'm not sure I want to meet him…" she admitted, worried. "I don't like meeting new people."

"Don't whine, that's a courtesy that isn't given to all women. Some girls don't get to meet their husband before they exchange vows," Klaas retorted with a sniff.

Mathilda sighed. "I know. That doesn't meant I want to meet him though. I'm not even going to marry him."

"Yeah, but he can't know that. And father cannot know that either. So you got to meet him whether you like or not," Alfred cut. "At least you'll know who he is, and that grumpy bodyguard of yours will be able to tell us how to overthrow him."

She pouted because, really, there was nothing else to do. Alfred was right, of course. Knowing the identity of the man who had stolen the Dutch throne from Klaas' family could only help their cause. It still annoyed her that she had to be the one to meet him though. She had no mind for war. She wouldn't know what to say. She'd probably trip over her own tongue and say something that might give the rebellion away. As a counsellor, the man must be smart and quick-witted. He wouldn't be impressed by a nineteen-year-old girl.

"Well then," Alfred said once he saw acceptation appear on his sister's face, "I'll be off. You ought to rest, Mattie. You look quite pale."

"Of course, I'm pale!" she retorted. "I nearly broke my neck and you just told me that I was to meet my unwanted husband! How did you expect me to react?"

"At least you didn't cry," her brother said with a mischievous grin.

He ducked the pillow thrown at him and was out in a matter of seconds, leaving her to stifle her urge to throttle him. Really, Alfred was a darling but he was an annoying self-satisfied bastard sometimes. Mathilda rubbed her eyes tiredly. She should get up, dress and go for her shift in the medical tent. Getting married was no excuse to shirk her duties. She didn't feel like facing anybody however. Surely, the wounded men and women in the medical tent would know about her little stunt after all. What if they asked her embarrassing questions?

"What were you and my brother talking about earlier?" Mathilda asked Klaas after Alfred had gone.

Klaas made a suspicious show of looking bored. He shrugged casually, scratched at his stubbly chin before shaking his head. Mathilda narrowed her eyes at him, trying to look annoyed and menacing, but failing miserably.

She didn't have the heart to be annoyed at her charge anyway. No matter how well Klaas was recuperating ever since he'd been brought into the camp, she couldn't stop remembering how pale and fragile he had looked, lying there on the bloody field. It was a strange feeling, for she had never really felt that way towards any other patients. Of course, she cared for them all, but once they were out of the medical tent, she felt they were no longer in her care. Maybe it was because she had saved Klaas' life, not only by nursing him back to health, but also by dragging him out of the battlefield. Maybe his forehead wound wouldn't have killed him, but the infection caught by lying amongst dead rotting bodies would have. But if Klaas was grateful to Alfred and her for saving him, he didn't show it. The man was a real pain in the ass when he wanted to be. He always grumbled and never seemed happy with anything. Furthermore, he liked to use his sharp tongue against anybody. Mathilda wondered how someone so crass could be the king of a country like Holland. She also wondered with some fright if everybody in Holland was like their king. If, heaven forbids, she should marry that mysterious counsellor, what would her life be like if everybody at court was as insufferable as Klaas?

"Is everybody like you in your country?" she asked worriedly.

"What do you mean 'like me'? Devilishly handsome and ridiculously smart?" he smirked.

Mathilda stared at him with an unimpressed expression. "You're hardly handsome and I'm still unconvinced about the smart part…"

"What? You don't think I'm handsome?" Klaas retorted with a dubious snort.

She frowned, looking him over. The burrowed clothes, of course, didn't fit him at all. They were a size too small for his big frame and not fit for a king. They made him look like a poor mercenary. His face was bony and angular; all flesh long gone after the week-long stay in bed while his wounds mended. There was no softness about him to be honest; he was all sharp lines and bones. There were muscles on him however, and he wasn't bulky only because he was so ridiculously tall. His features were sharp; his nose was long and bended slightly probably due to some breakage, his eyes were light brown and missed very little, his lips were thin and there was a permanent frown line between his eyebrows. The wound on his forehead that Mathilda had stitched was healing slowly but would surely leave an ugly scar above his right eyebrow. His features could be harmonious if his face wasn't so narrow. Still, he was far from being handsome but he wasn't monstrous to look at.

Mathilda's long contemplative silence was enough of an answer to Klaas' boasting. He snorted in dismissal and Mathilda couldn't stop herself from smiling in amusement. There was something ridiculously funny and perhaps a bit charming in Klaas' attitude. He always tried to act tough, yet she could see there was an underlying softness buried deep underneath his steely armour. His wittiness was amusing and the fact that, unlike many others, he dared challenge her was a welcomed novelty. Beside Alfred, nobody in her life had ever dared challenge her. She was the daughter of the feared emperor so her word must be law. Even the people who had taught her medicine had been reticent about pointing out her mistakes. It had been awkward at first until they finally realised that she wasn't going to rat them out to her father if they corrected her errors.

"So? Will you answer my question?" she asked a bit more seriously. "After all, I'm about to become their ruler in some way."

This was probably the wrong thing to do, for Klaas' eyes turned dark. Many emotions played over his usually stoic face. A muscle twitched in his jaw and he crossed his arms over his chest, hunching his shoulders as if expecting a blow. Mathilda was about to apologize for her lame joke when he answered:

"Nobody but me will rule my country."

"I know!" she hastily added. "I was only joking. It was a bad joke, I'm very sorry. I have no intention on ruling anything, I assure you."

He stared at her for a few seconds as if trying to detect falsehood in her words. She didn't flinch and looked straight back at him, daring him to call her a liar. She hadn't lied. She was content with being a mere doctor. She never had dreams of grandeur of ruling her father's empire or any kingdoms or countries for that matter.

Klaas seemed to deflate at her placating answer, and Mathilda thought he looked pale and tired. He was recovering after all. He was already pushing himself way too much. The day before, he had sparred with Alfred despite Mathilda's protests and she could see that it was taking its toll on him today.

"Klaas, are you sure you are alright?" Mathilda asked in a soft voice. "You're as pale as milk."

"I'm fine," he answered with an annoyed shrug.

Of course, the big idiot would never admit to any sort of weaknesses, even if she was his physician. It annoyed her. Mathilda had never understood why people never said when they weren't feeling alright. As a doctor, it made her work so much more complicated. As an ordinary human being, it made her worry. Alfred was probably a champion at pretending everything was alright. He once got stabbed and nearly bled to death until he finally agreed to seek medical help. Why was it considered weak to admit your body could fail you? The human body was an amazing machine, but it was also fragile. Nobody reacted the same way to wounds or to hurts. Someone else could have been left an idiot by the same kind of blow Klaas had received to the forehead while he would merely have headaches.

"You are not fine," Mathilda said. She used her doctor voice, the one that meant she'd brook no argument.

She got up from her bed and went to the Dutch king pretending to be a low bodyguard. From up close, a fine sheen of sweat could be seen all over his face. His eyes were watery and his skin very pale.

"You have a headache. Have you been taking the butterbur extract tinctures I've prepared for you?"

"I don't need this shit," Klaas muttered, answering her question indirectly.

Mathilda sighed and resisted the urge to grab him by the front of his ill-fitting shirt to try to shake some sense into him.

"Those tinctures help prevent the headaches. If you had taken them, you wouldn't be in pain right now," she lectured, waving a finger in front of his face as if he were a reluctant schoolboy. "Now, you are going to take your medicine like a good boy then you're going to bed to rest."

She pointed towards his small cot situated in one corner of her tent. It was separated from the rest of her living space by a curtain. It was only proper that their 'rooms' be separated by something, for she was an unmarried woman. It still felt a bit weird to have someone else sleep in her tent, but she was getting used to it. To be honest, she had been only half lying when she said that she didn't feel safe anymore after the attack in the medical tent. Spirits were running a bit high around the camp since the army was quite near to Amsterdam and the troops were looking forward to warm homes and hot meals.

If his pride wanted him to protest, Klaas listened to the voice of reason for once. He sighed deeply. His shoulders slumped and without a look behind, he went to his cot, lied down and was asleep in mere seconds. So the man wasn't only in pain but he was also exhausted. Mathilda smiled softly and removed his heavy boots so he could rest more comfortably. Klaas didn't even stir as she covered him with a blanket. He was already snoring. The frown line between his eyebrows was smoothed away by sleep and he looked younger now. Not for the first time, she wondered exactly how old he was. It was hard to tell only by looking at him and she had never dared to ask. Maybe she would sooner or later.

Once sure that her patient was as comfortable as he could get, Mathilda donned her more practical clothes, bound her hair back in a ponytail and left her tent to make herself a bit useful in the medical tent.


	9. How a Face Can Change When a Heart Knows

_A/N:__Here is a long chapter for you all! Things are starting to move forward, finally! I know The Netherlands is supposed to have one sister and one brother, but when I wrote this part, Luxembourg didn't have a personification yet, so I made him into a girl. Marie is Belgium and Justine is Luxembourg. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thank you so much for reading so far!_

**How a Face Can Change When a Heart Knows Fear**

At the brink of dawn, a maidservant woke Mathilda up. The woman shook her almost fearfully by the shoulder, her arm extended to its full length and only the tips of her fingers touching Mathilda. As soon as the emperor's daughter's eyes fluttered open, the woman took a few steps back before bowing almost in apology. Mathilda had no idea of the time, only that it was ridiculously dark and cold. She looked around without sitting up, wondering why she was being woken up so early. If it were a medical emergency, it would be one of the orderlies or one of the other doctors disturbing her rest, not a maid.

"My lady," the older woman began in a whisper, "your father sent me to wake you up. You are to dress and join him to break your fast. His majesty says I am to help you make you beautiful for your future husband."

Oh, crap, the husband. Mathilda suddenly wanted to go back to sleep and to wake up only next year. She clenched her eyes shut to suppress the feeling of hysteria rising inside her. Last night, she had expected to toss and turn at the thought of meeting the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with, but she had fallen asleep as soon as her head had touched the pillow. Now, she wished she had had time to think about the whole situation. Meeting new people outside her work was always a source of stress for her, and the fact that she was somehow supposed to look good in front of this stranger made things worse. Mathilda had no idea how to flirt. So far in her life, she had very little time to think about boys or ways to seduce them. To men, she was the daughter of the emperor first and foremost, so they rarely dared flirting with her. And even if they had the guts to do so, she was mostly blind to their attentions. She could never tell if a man was trying to seduce her. Usually, it was her brother who noticed this kind of things.

Maybe Alfred would be present at the breakfast and he'd make things less awkward for her. But Mathilda doubted it. Most likely, it would be a very private affair between the emperor, the future husband, and the future wife.

As if in a dream, Mathilda got up. She knew it would be totally pointless to whine at the maid. It wasn't the woman's fault anyway and she already looked scared out of her mind. Mathilda vaguely recalled her being one of the lady's maid of one of her father's general's wife. Why her in particular, Mathilda couldn't say and anyway she didn't care much to be honest. Right now, she only felt like throwing a tantrum, which wasn't like her. She was usually so docile. Still, it was the first time she was being forced into a marriage with a complete stranger.

The maid – it turned out her name was Hannah – slowly lugged in buckets of steaming water to fill the small copper tub that was becoming a permanent piece of furniture in Mathilda's tent. Mathilda sat quietly on her bed, a blanket wrapped around her body for warmth. The fire had died sometimes during the night and it would take a few hours before the tent was comfortable again. The water slowly rose in the tub the same way fear was rising inside her. She chastised herself mentally, repeating again and again that she had no real reason to be afraid. Soldiers who rushed at swords and canons had real reasons to be afraid. She was merely meeting a man whom she knew she'd never marry. It was merely a social call, nothing more. If anything, she'd only have to sit quietly while her father did all the talking. He wouldn't let her place more than two words in fear she said something shameful to him.

The water in the tub was thankfully warm and it helped her relax a bit. Mathilda tried not to think about anything as she let the maid wash her hair. She didn't like to be touched by strangers, but the older woman was nothing but professional. It was easy to see it was something she did very often for her own mistress. Sitting there, letting herself being pampered, Mathilda couldn't help but remembering how life was ten years ago before the war started. Back then, she never would have taken a bath on her own without at least two maids helping her. Her clothes were laid out for her every morning, her breakfast was brought in her room, her hair was combed artfully, her every need was looked after. She rarely had anything to do by herself. What a change war had brought. Mathilda found she missed the little comforts of having someone comb the knots out of her hair or hand her a towel after she got out of the tub. It was ridiculous to miss things like that, but she did.

Hannah the maid towelled Mathilda's long blond hair until it was mostly dry then brushed it vigorously until it shone in the candle light. Mathilda suffered through it without complaining, sitting on a low stool wrapped in a thick plush towel. The inside of the tent was warming up slowly, but it was still a huge contrast between the cold air and the warm water of the tub. She shivered and wished for her warm woollen clothes. While she had been bathing, Hannah had chosen a gown for her from the large wardrobe Mathilda so disliked. The garment was laid out on the unmade bed, taunting Mathilda. It was a beautiful dress, of course. Her father would never want her to meet her future husband dressed like a man after all. It made sense, but Mathilda felt a small part of her wanting to defy her father. How would he react should she present herself wearing Alfred's old clothes and smelling like the medical tent? But her lack of courage rapidly smothered that defiance. She reminded herself sternly that now wasn't the right time to attract attention. Her brother and cousin were plotting something very close to treason and, since she was in on the secret, she didn't want people to start wondering why she was being so out of character by defying her father. She wasn't sure she could resist close scrutiny. And anyway, nobody dared defy the emperor. Even Alfred did so moderately despite his rebellious spirit.

The dress was made of the finest fabric money could buy. It was a light purple colour with darker shades around the bodice. It was simple yet very elegant in a way only the best fabric can achieve. Mathilda remembered that dress from her wardrobe and having dismissed it for being too fine for her. Yet the maid had chosen it because it brought out Mathilda's odd-coloured eyes. The dress and her irises were almost the exact same shade of purple.

Considering the cold weather outside, it was a blessing that the dress had puffing long sleeves. Mathilda stepped into the dress as it was pooled on the floor and the maid helped her inside it. The bodice was, of course, a damned corset and Mathilda found herself short of breath after Hannah had tightened the laces way too much. It at least helped give her figure some curves. Other than that, the dress fit almost perfectly. It had been tailored for her mother, she realised with some surprise, and had been altered at the hem since her mother had been shorter. There was some slack around the hips since Mathilda's hips were as narrow as a boy's, but, other than that, the dress appeared to have been made for her.

Mathilda stared at herself in the mirror as the maid finished the last touches to her hair. Somehow, she looked older and more mature. Her hair had been pulled back from her face into something looking like a chignon. She really looked like the portrait of her mother. It was scary, like seeing a ghost. She was in no way beautiful, but the rich dress and mature hairstyle gave her something attractive. She couldn't put her finger exactly on what it was that changed her appearance so much, but it was there. Suddenly, she really missed her woollen trousers and old tunics.

"You should gain some weight," the maid muttered as she adjusted the waist of the dress with pins. "Men aren't attracted to scrawny women."

Mathilda merely nodded at the comment, not knowing what to answer to that. It was true, so far as she knew. While most noblewomen weren't exactly fat, they were usually quite plump with pink flesh and round cheeks. Their body was curvaceous even when squeezed inside a corset. Mathilda was quite the opposite; she was tall and scrawny with narrow hips, long skinny legs and flat cheekbones. Her only saving grace was her breasts, which she usually hid under baggy tunics. In that dress, with the corset tight around her ribs, her breasts looked quite… big. At least the neckline of the gown was very modest.

"You look very pretty, my lady," the old maid said with a sincere smile.

Mathilda smiled back nervously. Finally, she slipped her feet into the narrow slippers that were of the same colour as the dress. They were in no way comfortable and pinched her feet. Once again, she missed her more practical clothes. Those shoes would never protect her from the cold and the snow outside. They'd be soaked in seconds. How did ladies manage to live that way? Of course, they never had to trudge in knee-high snow or to navigate between narrow rows of cots, but still… She sighed. There was no helping it, in the end. She just had to go along.

Once she was at last ready to the maid's satisfaction, Mathilda put on a fur-trimmed cloak of black velvet. This garment was at least practical and warm albeit a bit too flashy to her taste. From the light filtering through the fabric of the tent, Mathilda could guess that it had taken more than an hour for her to be ready. She was getting hungry despite her stomach being in knots at the thought of meeting her future husband. Her legs felt like jelly as she left her tent.

Outside, the sun was peaking over the tree line in the distance, bathing the scenery in bright golden light. Snow had fallen during the night and lay yet undisturbed on the ground, covering every surface in a white blanket. The sun reflected off the white surface, giving the impression of a very bright day. The air was crisp and the sharp wind tugged at the loose canvas of tents. There was that clean smell that announced the coming of winter that Mathilda loved so much. She paused by her door, closing her eyes and merely breathing in. The cold air burned a path from her nostrils to her lungs, bringing with it memories of a better time.

"So you really are a girl," came a voice to her right.

Mathilda gasped in surprise and glared at her smirking ungrateful patient. Klaas had apparently been made to wait outside her tent while she dressed. He still wore his ill-fitting burrowed uniform and someone had been kind enough to find a cloak for him so he wouldn't freeze to death. After a good night's rest, his face had regained some colours and his eyes no longer shone with pain. They shone with mischief this morning, actually. Mathilda wasn't amused. She didn't like to be taken unawares, especially when she was wearing clothes that made her feel like somebody else. She closed the cloak around her body and crossed her arms.

"Thank you for noticing," she replied, not at all thankful. "What are you going to do while I'm having breakfast with your countryman who's supposed to be my future husband?"

"I'm coming with you. I have to see who he is and what he's planning."

Mathilda looked at him as if he had suddenly grown two heads. "But you can't. He'll recognize you immediately. Once you're discovered, you're as good as dead."

Klaas shrugged. He reached over his shoulder and brought up the large hood of his cloak. It flopped down over his eyes, shielding them from view and leaving only the lower half of his face visible. The growing stubble helped soften the sharp lines of his bony jaw and chin, but it was in no way a disguise. There was no hiding his height and especially not his bearings. He stood straight like a soldier, but there was something arrogant to the tilt of his head. He never could be passed as a commoner or a lowly soldier.

This was risky. Hell, it was _suicidal_. Mathilda wasn't joking when she pointed out that should he be found out, it would be nothing else but the death sentence for him. And he'd be lucky if he got a clean death. The emperor would probably want to make a show of strength by torturing the Dutch King to draw out his suffering for as long as possible. There would be no stopping that. The Dutch counsellor who pretended to rule in his king's absence would probably be too eager to see his threat to the throne be ridden of. On the other side, Klaas was right when he said he had to see who the man was and what he was planning. Of course, Mathilda could report to him later what she had seen and heard, but it wouldn't be the same thing as if Klaas had been present. There were things maybe he would understand that she wouldn't. She had no mind for politics and war after all.

Logically, she had no reason to stop Klaas from accompanying her. Furthermore, her father might find it strange that she didn't bring the bodyguard who had been shadowing her for the last week.

She stood in front of Klaas and yanked his hood lower on his face. "Fine, you can come, but don't you dare talk. Your accent is unmistakable. And keep your head lowered. Stop standing like a proud idiot. Don't forget that you are supposed to be an amnesiac recovering soldier."

Klaas grunted in something that sounded like approval. Obeying her, he didn't even open his mouth. Smart man. Still, Mathilda knew she'd be fretting over him during breakfast time. She could only hope that the men would think her fidgeting was caused by the nervousness of meeting her future husband.

She took one last bracing breath of cold air before starting towards her father's large pavilion. The camp was slowly stirring to life. Young orderlies and servants were running about, fetching water, food, and wood for their masters. The night guards were dragging their feet towards their tents for a well-deserved rest while fresh-faced soldiers were taking their places.

The muddy ground was frozen hard beneath the soft soles of her shoes. She could feel the cold seeping through the boiled leather easily. It reminded her of her childhood. Whenever Alfred and she would play in the snow, they'd come inside only once their feet were so numbed by the cold that they could no longer feel them. Once again, she found herself missing those easier days. She mourned the innocence they had all lost when the war started. To be honest, she was amongst the luckiest. Her hands weren't covered in blood. They had never held a sword to kill. She was there to patch people up, to give them a chance to heal and be whole again. She had never killed, never destroyed someone's future by snuffing out the candle of their life. Death changed people. She had seen it slowly but surely change Alfred. Alfred had once been a happy unworried child who liked nothing more than to laugh and have fun with his friends. Now, he was a very serious adult who didn't want to make friends in fear of losing them to an enemy's blade. His blue eyes had hardened and a frown line had appeared between his blond brows. All softness inside him had been erased. Mathilda had lost count of how many times she had to hold her brother through the night because he had been too haunted by the ghosts of the men he had killed to sleep. The same thing would most likely happen to Dan too. For the moment, he was so eager to show his prowess and prove his strength that he didn't realise how a small part of his soul was chipped away with every life he took. When that time came, he would go through the same thing Alfred had and he'd lose that brightness of innocent youth.

Thinking about Alfred's now flat eyes, Mathilda felt her convictions strengthen. She had had small doubts about their makeshift plan to overthrown the emperor, all of them fuelled by her fears, but when she thought about how many other boys and girls would have to lose their innocence because of a pointless war, she felt as if it were her responsibility to do something. If not her, if not her brother and cousin, then who? Who would be willing to put everything on the line to save countless lives? There were most likely many other people who hated the emperor and his thirst for power, but they knew the price of rebellion. They had seen the bodies of the traitors and had heard their cries of pain. They had seen the small squad of professional torturers who seemed to live only for the delight of cutting into flesh, to bright forth blood and screams.

Mathilda shivered at the memory. Once a month, the emperor gathered his troops and had the bodies of traitors paraded through the camp so everybody could see what happened to those who wished to rebel. To a doctor's eye, the cuts were precise and clean, always deep and wide enough to cause pain without risking death. Some bodies had little of them because the traitors had been beaten with clubs before being tortured; therefore their skin was covered in bluish bruises and signs of internal bleeding. Soldiers who had been found guilty of treason were often beaten by their comrades in their own unit as a show of contrition to prove that not all the unit was corrupted. If there were more than ten traitors found in one squad, they were all tortured then executed. Commoners were hanged until they choked nearly to death, then they were opened up so their insides could spill on the ground at their feet. It was a gruesome death, and the first time Mathilda had seen a woman being opened up from chest to navel, she had thrown up on her boots. Was it how they were going to die if they were found out? No, most likely their death would be even more horrible because they were of the emperor's blood. The emperor would take it as a personal betrayal that people from his family dared go against his will – especially his own children. They would be made an example of.

"You're a bit green around the gills. Don't tell me you're gonna faint?" Klaas asked.

Mathilda had completely forgotten about her bodyguard. She looked at him, wide eyed, as if he had just appeared out of thin air. Klaas' expression was hard to read from beneath the floppy brim of his hood, but there was a weird twist to his lips. Mathilda realised with a sudden jolt that the poor man was stressed about this meeting. Of course he was; he was about to meet the man who had more or less stolen his throne and put his whole family in danger. She had read between the lines during her conversations with her bodyguard that he had two younger sisters whom he was worried about. This man they were about to meet could very well have imprisoned them or even killed them both.

"I'm fine, thank you. You should worry about yourself," Mathilda said. She glimpsed her father's colourful pavilion and looked back at Klaas with a serious expression. "Please, promise me you won't do anything stupid. I don't want you to get killed, and I don't want weird questions asked about why it is the Dutch king is my bodyguard. There is only so much my naïveté can excuse."

Klaas looked a bit offended to be lectured by this. He opened his mouth to retort before thinking better of it. He sighed deeply as if she were asking something impossible of him. Thankfully however, he was wise enough to know she was right. He nodded solemnly, and Mathilda felt ten times better; she wouldn't be alone with two men who could very well be her enemies.

They reached the red tent of the emperor. By now, the camp was buzzing with life. People were starting on the day's business and not a few of them glanced at Mathilda as she walked purposefully towards her father's pavilion. Mathilda smiled at them, trying to show that she wasn't as inaccessible as her father was, but the smile seemed only to make them hurry away.

As always, there were men standing guard in front of the emperor's door. Both men were of her father's age with greying hair and lined faces. They were a familiar sight and had been by their superior's side since the beginning of the war. They were the most loyal kind of men, the kind that would be happy to die to save their charge, and the kind of men who would try to foil any attempt of rebellion. They looked at Mathilda almost with suspicion at first, as if she could be any girl pretending to be their princess. Then they looked at her bodyguard with hard eyes. One of the guards searched him thoroughly and forced him to give up his sword. Nobody but the emperor himself was allowed to carry any weapon inside this pavilion. Searching Mathilda didn't even cross their mind, and she could easily have concealed a knife in the folds of her skirts. They let them in with a small nod of their head. Mathilda nodded back, trying to look regal and princess-like.

The inside of the pavilion was warm. It was a welcomed difference from the freezing air outside. All maps, papers, and writing utensils that had been covering the great oak table had been carefully tucked away (probably to hide the emperor's battle plans from prying eyes). In their places had been laid out many dishes on silver plates. Anything that could be eaten for breakfast had been cooked and made ready. The quantity of food was obscene considering how their rations were running dangerously low. Mathilda couldn't remember when the last time she had eaten bacon was, but right now there was a plate filled with the delicious-smelling pieces of meat.

Three places had been made ready; one at the head of the table for the emperor. His chair was easily the most ornate one, with beautiful carvings on the backrest and armrest representing scenes of war. The two other chairs were on each side of the table, facing each other. Despite being heaped with food, the table looked ridiculously too big for three people. It also answered Mathilda's unspoken question as if her brother had been invited. Sadly, she'd have to face both her father and her future husband on her own.

The two men had been discussing something in low voices and turned towards her when she walked in. Her father, as always, looked impeccable. Despite the early hours, he looked as if he had been up for a long while. His clothes were perfectly pressed and fit him like a glove. There wasn't a hair out of place or any trace of sleep on his face. The ornately carved scabbard of his sword was of course belted at his waist. It never left his body and some people liked to joke that he even slept with it under his pillow.

The other man with the emperor was the really interesting one. He was tall and young. This surprised Mathilda because she had expected someone almost as old as her father. The Dutch counsellor had dark brown hair with a floppy fringe of hair that kept falling into his bright blue eyes. There was stubble on his chin, but instead of it making him look like an unclean fleabag, it gave him some kind of brutish charm. He was tall and slender, but the empty scabbard at his waist showed that he at least knew how to wield a sword. He didn't look threatening or even evil. If anything, when he first looked at her, he looked shy.

Mathilda curtsied awkwardly in front of the two men, raking her brain for the right thing to say. The emperor, technically, being the highest ranking person in the pavilion, had to speak first. The Dutch young man didn't seem to care for good etiquette however. Without waiting, he stepped forward, grabbed Mathilda's right hand, bowed over it and kissed her knuckles.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, princess. Your beauty is as stunning as they say."

She swore she could feel her face heating up. By now, her cheeks must be as red as tomatoes. Mathilda opened her mouth to answer, but she had no idea what to say to that. Nobody had ever called her beautiful or anything remotely close to that. Belatedly however, she realised that it was probably one of these platitudes men felt obliged to spew to women. She wondered how she should react to the compliment. Of course, she blushed, which was probably the expected response. The next step was trickier. If this were a mere courtier she wasn't interested in, she could pretend not to have heard the compliment or reply with a snarky comment. This man however was supposed to be her future husband. He was also a fellow ruler. Being snotty wouldn't be appreciated by her father. And anyway, it wasn't in her to be mean.

"You are too kind, sir," she answered in a low voice.

"Mathilda," the emperor cut in, walking to them and companionably clapping a hand on the young man's shoulder. "This is Jakob Rijnder, the regent king of the Dutchmen. He was the smart man who came up with the idea of letting us winter in Amsterdam, to both save his city and prevent the pointless loss of lives."

So far, Klaas had been mercifully (and suspiciously) silent and withdrawn. He stood by the door with his head lowered and the hood of his cloak hiding the upper part of his face. When the young man, Jakob Rijnder, spoke, Klaas made a disbelieving grunting noise at the back of his throat. Mathilda heard it, but the two other men didn't even turn in the bodyguard's direction. She threw a warning glare towards Klaas, beseeching him silently to stay quiet. There was no telling what would happen should his identity be discovered, but it was sure to be unpleasant. Klaas' body language screamed that it took all his will not to jump on the pretender. Thankfully, by pretending to be an amnesiac bodyguard, he was below notice for the emperor and the so-called Dutch king.

Mathilda was made to sit to the right of her father, a high place of honour she had never sat in before. It was usually Alfred or a favoured counsellor or general who had this chance. She felt uncomfortable sitting so close to her father and she had to make an effort to remember all her governess had taught her about table etiquette. Mathilda had once known all types of forks, spoons, and knives, had known what glass to use to drink white or red wine or water, had known how to place her utensils on her plate to show the serving maids she was finished, had known how to fold her serviette properly so it would protect her lap from spilled food. She had a good memory and could remember pages of books, but she usually did poorly in the real world. Once she got nervous, it was as if her brain shut down completely, leaving her functioning merely on instincts. Thankfully, right now, her nervousness wasn't great enough to smother her brain. She daintily folded the serviette on her lap, covering the soft fabric of the dress and protecting it from any spillage. She remembered not to rest her elbows on the tabletop, only her wrists.

The first course was served by silent maids in perfectly pressed uniforms. The emperor and Jakob were discussing war tactics and how the baggage train should be protected from enemy attacks. Mathilda pretended to be absorbed by the soup in its bowl (it was made of Delft blue pottery), but she kept an ear on the conversation. She was unsure of what exactly she was listening for, but she knew that Alfred would question her to know what had been discussed. Maybe he, or even Klaas, would understand things she hadn't.

The topic shifted from war horses to a topic Mathilda knew much better: herself. Jakob's eyes left the emperor to rest on Mathilda. She had just finished her soup and was busy dabbing at her mouth with one corner of the serviette. Her face turned pink when she realised Jakob was looking at her. He had a kind face, but there was a wry twist to his lips that Mathilda couldn't decipher. She smiled timidly at him, feeling uncomfortable. She couldn't stop herself from glancing rapidly in Klaas' direction, making sure her so-called bodyguard hadn't moved. He hadn't, of course, and it was reassuring knowing she had at least one ally in this pavilion.

"I heard you were learning Dutch, my lady," Jakob said pleasantly.

She nodded. "I am. I'm afraid I'm a bit of a slow learner, however."

Jakob himself had a noticeable accent when he spoke English. His words sounded harsh and there were some hesitations in his speech.

He laughed. "I was told you were very bright! So I'm sure you're only being humble."

The emperor nodded wisely. He waved his butter knife towards his daughter. "Yes, Mathilda has a big brain, that's true. Her teachers in medicine said she learned everything by heart twice faster than all other students."

"So you're a doctor!" Jakob exclaimed, eyebrows rising to disappear under his floppy fringe.

"I am," Mathilda answered with a nod.

"So you'll be able to take care of my people at court!"

"I'll attend to anybody who needs it, of course."

There was more meaningless chitchat as they ate. Most of the questions were directed to the emperor, but Jakob made a point of including Mathilda. He often asked her opinion on different matters, and she tried to respond as noncommittally as possible. Women weren't supposed to know much about warfare and especially weren't supposed to have opinions on anything. The emperor didn't object, but Mathilda could see it bothered him. She did her best to appear just smart enough. More often than not, she had no idea what the men were walking about. She was bored by the whole event and wanted to retire to her tent, but it wouldn't be polite to leave the table before being dismissed by her father. Her mind was wandering so much that she almost didn't catch the statement. Jakob was leaning towards the emperor slightly, in confidence, but he didn't lower his voice much. They apparently didn't mind Mathilda's presence or didn't think it would mean anything if she heard.

"The king and his family have disappeared," Jakob said with an annoyed sigh. "We've been searching everywhere for them, but to no avail. It's rumoured that the king fought in the last battle against your troops. If that's true, he's reverting to compost as we speak. As for his sisters, Marie and Justine, they are nowhere to be found. I have men searching for them and the heir. As soon as they are found, they'll be sent to meet their dear brother."

Everything happened at once. It felt as if time itself slowed so Mathilda could see everything with a terrifying clarity. There was an intake of breath coming from towards the door, much too sharp to go unnoticed. Surprised, both the emperor and Jakob started turning their heads towards Klaas whose face was turning red with rage. Mathilda acted before she could think. She clapped her hands and said with the sweetest innocent girlish voice she could manage:

"So, when are we getting married, my dear Jakob?"

Jakob looked at her quizzically while the emperor merely raised an eyebrow. She had managed to plant a joyful smile on her face, but there was cold sweat running down her back. She kept her hands clasped together to hide their trembling. She could see Klaas out the corner of her eye, and the man was practically shaking with barely held-back anger. Mathilda wanted nothing more than to grab the idiot and pull him out of the tent before he did something stupid. If she did however, too many questions to which she didn't have any answer would be asked.

"I believe the right time to marry would be when you father's army marches in Amsterdam," Jakob answered with just a tiny bit of suspicion in his voice.

"This is a splendid idea!" Mathilda exclaimed.

She knew she was acting ridiculously out of character. These two men probably knew that she didn't want to marry Jakob, yet here she was asking about their wedding day. Mathilda wished she was a better actress, but there was no stopping now. As long as she kept their attention on her instead than on Klaas, things might just work out.

"If we want this marriage to work, we have a lot of things to discuss," the emperor cut in, suddenly business-like and serious. "Mathilda, you are excused. Jakob and I will finish this discussion on our own."

Well, this was an abrupt dismissal if Mathilda ever saw one. This was what she wanted, yet now she felt uneasy at the idea of leaving the tent. Jakob and her father were about to discuss her future, yet she had no say whatsoever in it. Alfred had promised she would never marry this man, and the thought that it might happen scared the hell out of her. Jakob seemed kind enough, but she hadn't liked the way he sentenced Klaas' sisters to death so flippantly. It was as if their lives didn't matter. Of course, they threatened his reign, but he could have as well sent them into exile. People of royal blood were rarely executed after all.

Nonetheless, Mathilda got to her feet. She curtsied and Jakob got up to kiss her on both cheeks. It was awfully inappropriate for a man to kiss an unmarried woman, but Mathilda didn't protest. She merely smiled. The emperor looked as pleased as a merchant who had done a good day's work. It was, she guessed, a good business transaction; a daughter against a whole country. Technically speaking, she didn't do much for the war effort, unlike Alfred who actually fought on the battlefield. In exchange for a place to winter his army, the emperor had lost very little.

Mathilda put on her cloak, feeling oddly calm about the whole thing. It was as if, suddenly, she no longer cared what happen. Marry Jakob or not, it made no matter. She ridiculously felt betrayed. It was stupid. Women of noble blood had always been given in marriage to whatever strangers could bring advancement to her family. At nineteen, it was a small miracle that she hadn't been forced to wed yet. There were many available bachelors in her father's circle who could have been seen as potential husbands. What would have been better? Marrying a man as zealous about this war as her father, or a stranger who seemingly was only trying to save his city? How Mathilda wished Alfred was here right now to help her untangle all these thoughts.

She exited the tent as if in a dream, barely registering the fact that Klaas was following her. As soon as she was out, the conversation inside resumed, but she couldn't hear any exact words. She didn't want to hear any of it anyway. They were talking about her and making decisions about her future as if she were too stupid to take those decisions herself. It filled her with emotions she hadn't felt very often and it took her a few seconds to identify them; rage, annoyance, and especially powerlessness. It was as if her life was slipping between her fingers like sand, and no matter how she tried to grab the thousands falling tiny particles, she wasn't fast enough.

The cold wind whipping at her face brought her back slowly to reality. Mathilda was still standing by her father's pavilion, feeling hot and cold at the same time. With some effort, she unclenched her fists and forced herself to breathe more calmly. The men standing guards by the door were already looking at her strangely. If this continued for much longer, people would start whispering that the emperor's daughter was losing her mind. She had been acting out of character for the last few days and people who had known her all her life were sure to notice.

Finally, Mathilda started towards her own tent, head bowed. She glanced back to make sure Klaas was following her. The poor man looked pale and a bit shocked by what he had heard. It was no surprise really; his sisters seemed to be in danger. Mathilda realised she was being ridiculously selfish by walling in self-pity. Here was Klaas, alone amongst enemies, without any mean of knowing whether his family was alright or not. She turned to him, worry mingling with sadness on her face.

"Klaas, I'm so sorry about your sisters…"

It sounded lame, but she had no other words. She tried to wonder what she'd like to hear if it were her own brother who was in danger, and she realised that no word could make the situation any better.

"I've got to go back," Klaas said, face serious.

Mathilda's eyes widened. "But you can't! I understand you're worried, but if you leave camp on your own, you're sure to be caught by a patrol! You won't be any help to your sisters if you're thrown in prison or killed."

Klaas gritted his teeth. "I can't just stay here!"

"I know. But Alfred has a plan, remember? You have to trust him."

"He's my enemy, idiot. If your father had decided to attack my city, your dear brother wouldn't have hesitated one second to raise his sword against my people."

"How dare you!" Mathilda exclaimed in indignation. "Alfred doesn't like killing innocent people!"

Klaas levelled her with a stony glare. "All fighters like the killing one way or another. Your brother isn't different. I even heard he was good at his job."

"Yes, Alfred's very good with a sword, but he'd rather fight against people who can fight back. He's not a butcher, Klaas. I know you're worried, but it's no reason to be insulting Alfred. Surely you've realised that he wants to put an end to this war."

They reached Mathilda's tent in a tense silence. Klaas looked ready to kill someone or to run all the way to Amsterdam to make sure his sisters were okay. Mathilda had no idea what to say to him. It reminded her that Klaas was little more than a stranger to her. They had known each other for a couple of weeks, and Klaas wasn't the kind of person to let anybody in. He was constantly on his guard. It could be because he had found himself alone in an enemy camp, but Mathilda felt quite sure that he was always like that. He seemed like a hard man and she would have thought him incapable of feelings if she hadn't read worry for his sisters in his eyes. There was so little she knew about him. Did she want to learn more anyway? Klaas wasn't the kind of person she usually liked to hang with. He was way too rude and forward for her. There was no subtlety or finesse to him. He said whatever came to his mind without restraint, not caring if it shocked people. He was brutally honest and seemed to think that sugar-coating anything was weakness. He and she were completely on each opposite of the spectrum. It was no surprise they couldn't manage to understand each other.

The maid who had helped dressing Mathilda earlier this morning stepped out of the tent and bowed to the princess. Mathilda hadn't expected the older woman to still be here after her breakfast with her father. She regarded the maid with raised eyebrows before bidding her to speak.

"My lady, your brother Alfred has requested that you wear your riding clothes and meet him at the stables."


	10. Every Saint Has a Past, and Every Sinner

_A/N: __First of all, thank you to all of you who have stuck this long! Second, I'm sorry for the boring chapter. Nothing much happens, but it is a necessary chapter. I wrote it while I was in Amsterdam last year, but note how little I actually know about the Netherlands' history and geography. Please, take any discrepancies as artistic liberties so everything can fit together. Also, this is the last chapter of what I consider 'Part 1' of the story. From next chapter on, things start moving forward quickly. Chapters of Part 1 were written two years ago mostly, so you may note a slight change in my writing style. __I apologize in advance for this._

**Every Saint Has a Past, and Every Sinner Has a Future**

Well, this was unexpected. Unexpected, but also welcomed. If Alfred wanted to meet her there to go for a ride, it was probably because he wanted them to discuss their plan. This thought filled her with terror and excitement at the same time. She hoped her face remained as pleasant as possible as she nodded at the maid.

"Thank you, Hannah." A thought then struck her. "Hannah, why are you still here? Aren't you Lady Maggie's maid?"

"Yes, my lady," the maid answered with a nod. "But your father asked my lady to allow me to serve you until your wedding."

This was like a punch in the stomach. Even since the war had started, Mathilda had no longer had access to the luxury of maids or servants in her tent. She had grown used to it, preferring the newly-acquired solitude to the constant buzzing of the maids surrounding her. Right now was probably the worse timing to get this luxury back. Alfred and Dan used her tent as an unofficial meeting place for their little traitor scheme. With a maid around, they would have to find somewhere else to meet. Hannah, despite her innocent look, could very well run to the emperor and rat to him everything his children were talking about behind his back.

Mathilda was bad at reading people's expression, even the expressions of those she was closest to. She couldn't tell if the maid's face were sincere or deceiving. All she knew was that she had to answer something instead of staring with ill-concealed horror. Rapidly, she threw a glance towards Klaas, but the man didn't appear inclined to help her. It wasn't really of his business after all; Hannah was her maid so she had to deal with her by herself. A small, mean part of her that until a few years ago had been close to non-existent wanted to order the maid away. Despite missing the commodities of her old life, Mathilda wasn't ready yet to go back to that. She liked her privacy. If she had wanted a maid, she would have found one herself. But there really was no helping it in the end. Even if she got mad, it wouldn't change anything, and it would make people wonder if the emperor's daughter wasn't losing her mind. She'd been acting so much out of character lately that someone was bound to notice.

So instead of shooing Hannah away, Mathilda smiled uneasily. "It is an honour to have you serve me, Hannah. I shall have to thank Lady Maggie for her generosity.''

The maid bowed her head, and a strand of greyish hair fell from her tight chignon. "The honour is mine, my lady. Shall I find a dress appropriate for riding?''

A dress appropriate for riding. There was no such thing, Mathilda thought with a mental groan. Back in her youth, she'd been taught how to ride like a proper lady, sitting sideways on her saddle. She'd never liked it much, and it wasn't until she grew bold enough to start wearing trousers that she had started to enjoy riding.

She shook her head. "No, thank you. I believe I'll wear trousers. It is much more comfortable.''

Hannah didn't look pleased at that, but she was wise enough not to comment. She went back inside to get the clothes ready for her mistress. As soon as she had disappeared inside, Mathilda turned her attention to Klaas who had witnessed the whole exchange with a bored look on his face.

"I wonder what it is Alfred wishes to discuss.''

"He probably has tons of stuff he wants to tell you,'' Klaas said with a shrug. "And I'm guessing he also wants to ask about your future husband.''

Mathilda didn't want to be reminded of her encounter with Jakob Rijnder, but Klaas was probably right. And anyway, she wanted to talk about this with Alfred. She wanted to talk about this with Klaas too since he most likely knew the man, but it wouldn't be safe to do so here. Anybody passing by might hear their words.

"As soon as we are outside the camp, we'll talk,'' she sighed.

If Klaas was annoyed by that prospect, it didn't show. Ever since they had left the emperor's tent, his face had been closed and hard to read. His eyes were stony however, and it was easy to guess he was beyond pissed by what he had heard earlier. His sisters were in danger. Mathilda, somehow, had a hard time wrapping her mind around the fact that her recovering patient had a family. It was odd to imagine this hard man being the older brother of two girls. How was he with his sisters? Was he as cold as he was right now, or was there warmth underneath that icy exterior? If she hadn't seen how he had reacted to the news about his sisters, she probably would have believed that he was an awful older brother. But she knew that, deep down inside, he cared for them and that he longed to be by their side. Wouldn't she feel the same yearning to go back to her brother should she be separated from him? Siblings might not always get along, but they always had that urge to run back to each other despite everything.

Klaas was her patient, so it was her job to take care of him, even if he had most likely recovered all his strength. She reached out and rested a hand on his arm. Surprised, he looked down at her, the aura of melancholy finally breaking.

"If your sisters are only half like you, I am quite sure they will be fine.''

He snorted. "Marie's like a little devil and Justine could force people to suicide with her boringness. Of course they're fine.''

She couldn't help it, she laughed. "You'll be back by their side soon, don't despair.''

"How can you be so sure?'' he demanded, back to being his old bitter self. "You can't be sure. I could die tomorrow. They could be killed and I wouldn't even know it.''

"It's what we call faith, Klaas. Have a little faith.''

"Faith exists until you find yourself buried underneath a pile of your countrymen corpses, girl.''

The air was clean and fresh, finally free from smoke this far from camp. Mathilda wouldn't lie, riding her horse freely in the countryside was like waking up from a bad dream. The maid Hannah had wanted to send bodyguards with her, but she had managed to convince the older woman that she'd be perfectly safe with Klaas and Alfred. The woman had wanted to argue, but she hadn't dared raise her voice to the emperor's daughter. No doubt, the emperor had heard of her small escapade as soon as she had left the stables, but right now she couldn't bring herself to care. Free from her stuffy dress and petticoats, she kicked her heels into her horse's sides. The reddish mare picked up speed, apparently glad to be able to stretch its legs. She was a good rider, so she didn't mind the muddy unknown road. The cold wind whipped at her braid and tugged at her clothes. The skin of her face was undoubtedly turning red already and her lips would be dry later on, but she didn't care. For once, she didn't care for anything. All she could feel was the strength of the horse beneath her and the wind around her. It smelt clean and cold, heralding winter like no other signs. In the distance, the trees had already started shedding their reddish gold leaves. The canopy it formed was wet and she could smell its earthy smell even from that distance. She inhaled deeply, the scent brining back memories of childhood.

The Netherlands was a beautiful country, and she wished she would be free to wander it as she fancied. She loved the rolling tiny hills and the many windmills that creaked in the wind. The smell of the water that was being held back by the dykes was everywhere, somehow empowering and dizzying. In their journey towards Amsterdam, they had passed many tiny villages and hammocks. All of them appeared beautiful and so picturesque, it had broken her heart to see all those colourful houses put to the torch.

No, no, she couldn't think about those things right now. She had to concentrate on the good; the wind, the horse, the landscape. She couldn't afford to waste her very rare day off by thinking of the horrors brought on by the war. Here, far from the killing field were so many Dutchmen had died, it was as if the war didn't exist. As far as her eye could see, there were green pastures, trees and the endless grey sky. To her right, she knew there was that large river that ran through Amsterdam itself. She realised with surprise that she knew very little of the country her father wanted to subjugate. Only the highest officers were privy to maps and plans of the countries to conquer. The soldiers and everybody else in the massive war host had to follow blindly. What she knew of the terrain, she had learned by wounded soldiers who had been in battle. She knew Amsterdam was the capital of the Netherlands and that the whole country was below sea level, meaning they used dykes to keep the rivers at bay, but her knowledge stopped there. It had never seemed important for her to learn more about the places she went to. The war didn't allow for sightseeing after all, and she was always way too busy with her patients to go for a ride in the countryside. Usually, she wouldn't even be allowed to leave camp this freely, anyway.

Mathilda pulled on the reins of her horse. It slowed to a lazy walk and tossed its head with what appeared to be an annoyed snort. She turned in her saddle to look at her approaching bodyguard. Klaas didn't seem to be appreciating the little time off. If anything, he didn't actually look quite comfortable on his borrowed horse. The stable lad had chosen a quite placid horse for the healing soldier, yet Klaas still held himself as if he were afraid the beast would bolt at the merest sound. He held reins way too tight in his fists and his back was so straight it looked in danger of snapping.

She desperately wanted to tease him about his unease, but she stilled her tongue. It wouldn't be kind and Klaas didn't take well to harmless teasing (unless he was the one doing the teasing, of course). As he caught up with her, she smiled at him in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. She noticed with professional ease that the stitches on the cut on his forehead would have to be removed. To her displeasure, it surely would leave a scar.

"This place is beautiful,'' Mathilda said with a smile. "What is it called?''

"We're near a city called…'' he hesitated, apparently wondering how the pronounce something in English. "Haarlem,'' he said, opting for the Dutch pronunciation. "You can hear the river Spaarne from here. A good part of the city has been destroyed during the last few confrontations with your army however.'' He shrugged. "Whatever, it's not important.''

Something hurt inside her chest, and Mathilda tried to convince herself that she wasn't heartbroken for this man she barely knew. Klaas didn't look sad, per se, but he appeared… defeated. As he slowly took in the landscape around them, his shoulder sank and his grip relaxed on the reins. There was no apparent sign of destruction or war around, but she couldn't be sure. This wasn't her country, this wasn't her home. Maybe he saw things that weren't supposed to be there. Or maybe he was able to picture all too well the destruction of this town called Haarlem. Had it been big? Had it been important? She had no idea, and somehow it angered and annoyed her at the same time. She wanted to commiserate with Klaas, yet she didn't know what to say. It will all end soon? Don't worry, you can always rebuild? No, all these words sounded hollow and meaningless even to her own ears. Yet she spoke them aloud nonetheless, because remaining silent in the face of such despair was above her.

"You really don't have what it takes to be in a war,'' Klaas said after a very long silence. He sighed. "You're too kind, idiot. Harden your heart or you won't make it.''

"I've already survived ten years of this, Klaas. I believe I can survive ten more if I have to. If I stop caring about the others, I'll become like Alfred; cold and hollow and sad. I don't want that. I don't want to live with the belief that everybody is as war-bent and cruel as my father is. There are still good people out there who deserve kindness. I'd be a very bad healer if I couldn't be compassionate towards my patients.''

For the first time since they had left the camp, Klaas turned his whole attention on her. Mathilda shivered slightly and dropped her gaze to the long mane of her horse. She felt as if she were being probed and observed by that unwavering stare. Then, Klaas muttered something under his breath in his mother tongue and the spell was broken.

Mathilda blinked, a bit surprised, then turned her head. A strange heat rose to her cheeks and she put her gloved hands to her face, wondering what was happening. The soft leather of her gloves felt cold against her heated cheeks. She wondered where they were supposed to meet Alfred. Hannah the maid had been mostly vague, telling that the emperor's waited for his sister east of the camp. Well, east went a long way.

After a few minutes of silence, a blond head finally appeared on the horizon. Alfred, to her relief, wasn't alone. She could easily recognize their cousin's silhouette riding behind her brother, looking proud with the sun shining behind him. There were only the two of them, and Mathilda couldn't help but wonder how they had managed to leave the camp on their own. Bastard son of the emperor or not, Alfred wasn't always free to do as he pleased. Despite being an excellent fighter and always being on his guard, their father had forced on him a small force of bodyguards who was ordered to follow him everywhere. Since the attack on the camp a few days prior, the emperor had grown increasingly nervous at the boldness of their enemy. It wasn't often that his foes had tried to overrun his camp after all. It would do no good for him to lose one of his best fighters and the champion of his base-born soldiers. And so, he had decreed that ten of his favourite soldiers would follow his son everywhere, for his own protection.

It was such a ridiculous plan. Mathilda, although she never wished for any harm to befall her beloved brother, knew that Alfred would rebel against such protection. He'd never taken well to coddling and being treated like a defenseless child. He was too smart to protest outwardly, and so he had taken to make a game of evading his protectors. Apparently, he was good at it if he had managed to smuggle himself, his cousin, and their two horses out of the camp while ordering Hannah the maid to give his sister a message. Mathilda felt a mixture of fondness and exasperation at the thought. Despite being the younger sibling, she felt oddly protective of Alfred. Whenever he went into battle, there always was a tightening inside her chest that disappeared only after she had made sure he had come home whole. She hated the thought of him fighting against other people whose sole purpose was to kill him. More often than not, despite his skills, he came back wounded. Sometimes, it was only a few minor scratches, while other times the wounds were more grievous. He always came to her for healing, and she still was unsure if she was relieved at the prospect or if she hated this. Yes, she fixed his wounds, but stitching a cut or settling a bone hurt no matter the gentleness she showed. At least, when he came to her, she knew he was well looked after.

"I was starting to wonder if you were going to show up," Alfred said as he reined up beside her. He spared a glance to Klaas before turning the full weight of his gaze on his sister. "I thought something might have happened. Did the maid give you my message?"

"Well, good morning to you too," Klaas interjected with false politeness. "Sorry to have kept his majesty waiting."

They were going at it again. Mathilda didn't understand men. Why did they have to always be bickering like children? They were supposed to be on the same side in this dangerous venture, why couldn't they be getting along?

Alfred looked ready to punch the Dutchman in the face, but Mathilda inched her horse closer until it stood between the two others.

"Gentlemen, please. Now is not the time for arguments. Alfred, yes, Hannah gave me your message. She was loathe to allow me to leave without a proper escort however. I'm quite sure she ran to father as soon as I was out of view. This is probably the last time we will be allowed to meet outside the camp until we reach Amsterdam. Let's use this time wisely."

This was a sobering thought; the two men stopped staring at each other. Even ever-cheerful Dan looked crestfallen. Mathilda hated seeing them looking so grim, and she forced a smile that she knew must look as fake as it felt. Suddenly, out of nowhere, she wanted to burst into tears. It was getting to tiresome, all this. The war, the restrictions, the hardships, the emperor's constant gaze. Humans weren't meant to live in such a way. She didn't have to be a renown philosopher to understand that human nature surely wasn't as twisted. Oh yes, men and women had violence in them, she couldn't deny it. They lusted for blood, even the best of them. But it was nothing a good brawl once in a while couldn't fix. Not a ten-year long war. It was taking its toll on everybody. The old folk had grown jaded and the fresh-faced soldiers were zealots eager to prove their worth. What would the next generation be like, she wondered? Children being born in the last few years would grow up knowing only war.

_I'm never having children as long as the war lasts,_ she promised to herself.

Alfred sighed. "That's what I feared. Anyway, Mattie, tell us quick about that guy you're supposed to marry."

Mathilda hesitated. "I was with him for an hour at most, and exchanged only a few sentences. Hardly the time necessary to get to know someone." She glanced at her bodyguard, wary of offending him. "But he didn't seem like a bad person. He's a bit older than me. Polite, courteous, a little shy it seemed. Father seems to have taken a liking to him."

If the words of kindness bothered Klaas, it didn't show on his face. But Mathilda was starting to realise that the man had an excellent mask of indifference he could put on at will. Even his eyes were flat, a dull amber that revealed nothing of his inner thoughts. Somehow, it unnerved her more than if he had been angry or offended. She wasn't used to deal with people with such perfect self-control. Even Alfred hadn't mastered such a perfect control on his emotions.

"I see," Alfred said. He glanced at the Dutchman, clearly expecting some kind of reaction. When he didn't get any, he continued, "This isn't much to go on with. We will need to know whether he can be discarded or not. Van Rijn, man up and tell us more. If you don't help us, how can you expect us to help you regain your throne?"

Klaas' eyes turned as sharp as a freshly whetted sword. He turned his cool expression to Alfred, looking at him as if the younger man were nothing but dirt on the sole of his boot. Clearly, he didn't like being ordered about. Despite being close to being nothing but a pauper, he still had a deep well of pride. For a moment, he kept silent, as if wondering whether he should indulge Alfred with an answer. Mathilda looked at him, frowning. Even Dan looked disconcerted by such attitude.

"Technically," Klaas began after a few long seconds of silence, "Jakob is in his right to rule. He isn't some kind of upstart junior counsellor of ordinary blood. Some centuries ago, it was the Rijnder family sitting on the throne." He thought for a second. "Jakob's great-great-great grandfather, give or take a generation, was the king, while my great-great-great grandfather was a counsellor. Our positions were reversed, in a way. I won't offer you a full history of the time, but let's say that the Netherlands weren't very flourishing back then. There were a lot of floods. Arable lands were turned to swamps overnight. There was famine and a general lack of everything. Of course, the plebeians started to blame the king. Back then, the Netherlands were a colony of the Spanish Empire. There were heavy taxes and other tariffs to make sure everybody was poor and miserable. Most people wished to be freed of the Spanish rule. The counsellor Van Rijn, my ancestor, wished for the same. The king didn't want it. He was well liked by the Spanish King and benefited from our position as colony." He shrugged. "So he was deposed of. My ancestor took the throne. There was the war, we won our independence, and you know the story. You see, as I said, technically, Jakob is allowed to rule. He's not a bad man. He's smart and quick-minded. But, like his ancestor, he's a coward who prefers the status quo. He was the first to propose that we form some kind of alliance with the advancing British army when they marched into Belgium. He really didn't want to fight you. Thankfully, most of the other councillors preferred the risk of fighting rather than forming an alliance with a brutish people. So I'm not surprised that he reached out to the emperor instead of fighting him."

"Is he a popular man in Amsterdam?" Alfred asked.

"More popular than most, but not overwhelmingly so. Most of his supporters aren't in the army, if that's what you're asking. He's more of an intellectual."

"So there's a good chance we could turn to army against him?"

Klaas shrugged. "It is possible. However, as I said, Jakob isn't stupid. He will have consolidated his position by putting his friends in the right places. Considering that most of my highest ranking officers died in the last battle, it wouldn't have been hard. My army used to be mostly scattered, but the soldiers have been called back for the last push. Seeing as I'm most likely the only one who survived, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that only the reserve army is still standing." He considered this for a few seconds. "He probably will have enrolled other people of fighting age too. It's quite easy to evade military service if you've got money and the right connections, though."

"So that means that, if we face another Dutch army," Dan cut in with a smile, "it will be considerably weaker, with untrained men and women."

"Yes," Klaas agreed carefully. "But it won't be outside the walls of Amsterdam however. Jakob will know the army his weaker, so he will keep it behind walls."

"A wall is only as strong as the men manning it." Alfred said dismissively. "We don't want another fight. We want to do this carefully, silently. If we simply fight, it won't change anything. We need to get rid of the emperor and his most trusted generals. We will have to strike them down all at the same time so none of them has the time to take the reins of the English army."

"And what will happen when your army is headless?" Klaas asked, one eyebrow raised. "Will your soldiers march home of their own volition? Surely, they will need someone to give orders."

Alfred didn't look fazed by Klaas' unfriendly gaze. "You want to know if I want to sit on my father's throne. I don't. The only person fit to do so has been dead for six months. I will, however, take control of the army."

"And once you're back in London? The throne will be ripe for the taking by anyone rich enough to raise an army. As I've heard, there are lords throughout England who are richer than even the king himself. "

Mathilda and Dan glanced at each other. Clearly, neither one of them had thought that far.

"You will have to take the throne," Dan said to his cousin. "Al, we can't take the risk of someone else taking your father's place and continuing his work."

Alfred looked as if he had swallowed something bitter. He glared at Dan as if the younger man had insulted him gravely. Mathilda had to agree with Dan. She knew that Alfred loathed the idea of following in their father's footsteps, but for the moment, he was the best candidate they could hope for. He was the only son of the emperor. Albeit a bastard, nobody could claim he had been fathered by another man. His lineage on his father's side was clear, and he wouldn't be the first bastard born son to hold power. Furthermore, he was the only one they could trust not to set out again for new conquests. Had Mathilda been a man, the throne would have fallen to her without question. If she had been the mother of a son, she could have ruled in her son's stead until the boy reached the age of reason. They had other cousins, of course; the emperor wasn't an only child after all. But their allegiance couldn't be certain. They hadn't been close enough. And anyway, most of them had been sent to the farthest corners of the empire to make sure their conquered lands didn't foment rebellion. They couldn't be called back in time.

So no matter how they looked at it, it always fell back to Alfred.

Clearly, he had worked it out too. His face was stormy at the thought and his eyes were dark. He stayed silent for a long while, gaze fixed on the dark mane of his horse. _Nothing_ could be done if Alfred didn't accept to become king.

After what seemed like an eternity, he sighed heavily. "Fine, whatever. No matter how I look at it, I don't see any other alternatives."

"What about him?" Klaas asked, nodding towards Dan. "Isn't he your cousin or something?"

Dan, looking genuinely surprised at the suggestion, laughed. "Nah, I can't. I wasn't raised in England, and anyway, I'm almost as legitimate as Al is." He smirked. "And anyway, I know nothing of ruling. I don't inspire the same respect Al does."

Klaas didn't say anything about that, merely looking a bit curious about this revelation. He held his tongue and didn't ask anything else.

The four of them remained in brooding silence for a few moments longer. The only sounds they could hear were the snorting of their horses and the wind sweeping across the flat landscape. The grass bended gracefully as the wind tugged at the four young people's clothes.

"What do you say we run away, eh?" Dan asked hurriedly, as if the silence hurt him somehow. "We could get away from this war!"

Klaas frowned at the young man, as if wondering at the sincerity of his words. "You can run if you wish to, but I won't. How far do you honestly thing you could go before you get caught? The countryside is crawling with the emperor's scouting parties."

Dan pulled a face. "It was only a joke, mate. I wouldn't run away even if given the chance."

"I don't have much of a sense of humour."

"It is quite hard to have a good sense of humour during such trying times," Mathilda said before the argument escalated further. "We haven't been gone for long yet. Perhaps we could ride around a bit before going back to camp?"

As she suggested this, they all saw a cloud of dust farther away on the horizon. Alfred sighed and, after mentioning a patrol, decided they should go back so they wouldn't get in trouble.


	11. Cause I don't Want Enough, I Want it

_Once again, I have to thank everybody who reads this story! Everything I know of Dutch traditions, I've taken from the great book Daily Life in Rembrandt's Holland, by Paul Zumthor. I hope you enjoy this chapter, even if it's a bit slow!_

**'Cause I don't Want Enough, I Want it All **

When they returned to the camp, grey clouds had gathered overhead to hide the sun and blue sky. Wind had picked up again, tugging at clothes and unbound hair. Judging by the restlessness of the horses, it was safe to assume that a storm was brewing. But for the moment, the weather held its breath, allowing the small party of four to reach the safety of the camp unhindered. As soon as they reached the gate of the wooden palisade, they were intercepted by half a dozen soldiers in red uniforms. Security had been increased throughout the camp, and even if the uniformed men and women recognized the emperor's family, they still stopped them to ask questions. Alfred, of course, being the oldest and highest ranked officer, spoke for them all. He was friendly to the soldiers, polite, but direct. It showed in his tone of voice that he didn't much like to be questioned, but was nonetheless willing to allow it. He explained their little sortie as a need for fresh air and to stretch their legs. The soldiers didn't look very suspicious. Most of them knew either Alfred or Dan after all, and at least two had been treated for wounds by Mathilda. Nonetheless, the royal children were scolded for leaving the camp without telling anybody and without taking bodyguards with them. They accepted the rebuke meekly before being waved away.

As soon as they were inside the palisade, they climbed down their saddles and pulled their horses towards the many stables. Many carts had been brought around tents and pavilions so their inhabitants could start packing for the journey towards Amsterdam. Wooden boxes were being put back together for storage and a great number of bags had been sewn up during the last few days. It was a common sight for an army on the march. Moving was part of war, after all, and the people who followed the army had become masters had packing and unpacking effectively.

Alfred and Dan bid Mathilda good day, and they went their separate ways. Dan was on guard duty later on and Alfred was supervising the training of new recruits. Mathilda probably wouldn't see them again for a few days. Given their different occupations, weeks could pass before they had the chance to sit down and chat for more than a few hurried minutes. In the midst of the battles, Alfred and Dan were too busy fighting, and afterward, Mathilda was too busy patching up the fallen soldiers. It was mostly when the emperor decided to call a stop and the army built up a camp that they could really take the time to sit down and talk.

She looked at their retreating back and sighed lightly. Her precious brothers. They made this living hell of a war that much more tolerable. She felt a rush of love for them, so much that she almost ran after them to hug them. She resisted the urge, of course, but barely. There was no telling when the three of them would see each other again. Anything could happen, even inside the camp. She wished their quarters weren't so far, that she could keep an eye on them to make sure they didn't get into mischief. Dan had always been prone of getting into trouble. Nothing very serious, thankfully, but Mathilda had lost count of how many times Alfred had to speak on his cousin's behalf so he wouldn't be punished too harshly. Not that Dan wasn't smart, but he was the type of boy who acted before thinking. It wasn't always a good idea in ordinary life, and a death sentence in waiting on the battlefield. Each time he went into a fight, Mathilda was half certain she'd get the sad news that he'd been killed. She was pretty sure she aged ten years every time her boys were engaged into anything involving the use of weapons.

Silent Klaas and she reached her tent, weaving through empty carts and hurrying servants. Everything was in such a frenzy that she nearly missed it. Above the flap of her tent had been hung a wreath of greenery. Surprised, she stared at it, sure that it hadn't been there when she left earlier in the morning. The wreath wasn't very big, but the colourful flowers and the long green grass had been tied together appeared to be out of season. She hadn't seen flowers so bright for months now. And they seemed real, not the kind of ornaments women made of paper to add some cheerfulness to their tents.

"So he's courting you," Klaas said dully, eying the wreath as if it were coiled serpents really to strike at him. "How romantic."

"I beg your pardon?"

He jerked his chin towards the wreath. "It's a sign of courtship."

"Who's courting me?" Mathilda asked dumbly, blinking. "I've never heard of men doing such a thing to court a girl."

"It's a Dutch thing. A man who wishes to approach a girl ties a flower or a wreath of greenery above her door." He scowled. "Or above her tent's flap, I guess."

Mathilda's eyes went wide. Oh. She didn't have to ask who was the Dutchman who had tied the wreath above the _door _of her tent. Her face heated and she rapidly looked away. How odd. Why was the man chosen by her father trying to woo her if it were certain they were going to get married? It was not as if he needed her approval. Her treacherous eyes found their way back again to the wreath. It was quite of a sweet tradition, she thought. Her romantic heart beat just a tiny bit faster at the thought that a man had taken the time to find flowers and grass, and to weave them together for her. It made very little sense why Jakob Rijnder would take the time to do such a thing, but he had done it nonetheless. She couldn't help wonder why, while a part of her was simply too moved to care much. She scolded herself silently. At her age, it didn't do to be so romantically naïve and so easily touched by such a simple gesture. It was _only_ flowers, after all.

She suddenly felt keenly Klaas' presence by her shoulder, and she turned to glance at his face. His expression was smooth as always, but there was a tightness to his jaw. Mathilda couldn't help wondering what he was thinking about. He was still probably enraged that this Jakob Rijnder had stolen his throne and put his family in danger. And maybe he didn't like the idea that she was to become some sort of accomplice to his treachery. No matter that they had already decided to take the Dutch throne back to give it back to its rightful owner, for the moment, it was still occupied by Jakob and would remain so until they succeeded. And let's say, for argument's sake, that they failed. Did that mean that Mathilda would have to marry Jakob? (If she didn't get executed for treason first, of course.) She shied away from that thought. She knew she'd have to contemplate it later. It was a possibility, after all. Later, but not right now.

"Is there something I'm supposed to do about this?" Mathilda asked, gesturing towards the pretty colourful wreath.

Klaas shrugged. "Well, think about it. That's a Dutch thing. You seemed never to have heard about this tradition before now. It would be suspicious if you were to do something about it."

"That's true. Let's say I don't do anything. Just tell me what a Dutchwoman could do."

"She can either throw it to the ground. It means a refusal. Or, if she accepts the courtship and returns the man's feelings, she puts a little basket full of sweets or flowers. And at that point, most couples start exchanging notes. They conceal them amongst the flowers."

Mathilda blinked, honestly surprised. "That is very romantic. I never expected something like that. It's much more personal than the way we do things in England." She turned to consider the wreath. "And if I were to throw it to the ground, would Jakob stop pursuing me?"

"No. He'd probably replace it with a bouquet or something like that. And anyway, I doubt you can really refuse him."

She sighed. "You're right. I'll leave the wreath there. One way or another, I'm not supposed to know what to do with it." She looked up towards the cloudy sky, trying to gauge the hour of the day. "I'll spend the afternoon in the medical tent, I think. I miss my patients. Will you be alright on your own?"

Klaas scoffed. "Of course, mother. I'll just wait here for you to come back like a good dog."

Mathilda couldn't stop herself from laughing. "You're not a dog!" She smiled. "Wait for me here like a good husband while his wife goes to work."

"Hmpf, as if I'd be a good husband."

She pulled a face. "No, I doubt you'd be one now that you mention it. Anyway, you know where to find me should any trouble arises. Behave yourself, Klaas."

She cheerily waved at him as he left, and Klaas only rolled his eyes. She knew he'd be alright on his own. While she wasn't around, he spent most of his time resting and walking around the camp, trying to build up his lost strength. He was almost back to his old self, she felt. The pallor of the past few days had left his face and the feverish light had left his eyes. He no longer got tired as easily and some kind of restlessness had settled over him. She guessed he yearned for his homecoming. She understood. She was in a hurry to get him out of here too. Not that she didn't appreciate his brooding presence, but she knew they were living on borrowed time. It was only due to the anonymity provided by the impressive number of soldiers in her father's army that nobody had realised Klaas didn't belong here. The fact that he kind of lived in her shadow helped. Nobody would dare question the judgement of a person from the royal family. However, she had no idea how long and how far this protection would stretch. She had been acting oddly, very out of character. There was no telling that someone might not start questioning her judgement. Her father didn't surround himself with idiots, after all. He liked men keen of intelligence and fast of thinking. It didn't mean they would suspect or even notice Klaas, but she would be under their scrutiny, something to be avoided at all costs.

She changed into the less constricting dress she had before leaving her tent. Mathilda looked up towards the cloudy skies, a prayer on her lips. She had never been the most devout, yet she dared hope that there was some sort of higher being. Who was he (or she or it or they?), where did he live, and why he allowed monstrous things such as wars to take place, well, she didn't know. Yet maybe this being answered prayers once in a while. So she prayed for a little more time. Just a tiny bit, just until they were ready. It wasn't much. Not a big wish or a huge demand. Just something that would maybe save lives in the long run. Please, just a bit more time so we can set our plan in motion. So we can all be safe.

In a way, some higher being heard her plea. She got more time. Much, much more than expected.


	12. Someday, This Pain Will be Useful to You

**Someday, This Pain Will be Useful to You **

**This chapter contains material that could shock or trigger some people. Remember violence of all sort is present in this story. Proceed with caution if you are triggered or shocked by any sort of violence done to women.**

There were many reasons why this attack succeeded when, in all respects, it could easily have failed. First of all, when Mathilda left the medical tent later in the evening, the clouds had broken and rain poured down to soak everything. The downpour was loud against the beaten ground, canvas tent and wooden structure of the camp, almost deafening. It would have been hard to hear the warning bell ringing, and even more so to hear footstep on the soft ground. Second, the area around the medical tent was quite dark. She had never noticed because the dark didn't bother her. People who were brought in were usually in too much pain to notice such a thing or too unconscious. The healers had no time to worry about not enough or too much torches outside, as long as they had plenty of light inside. Had there been more torches, she probably would have spotted moving shadows on her way. Third, there was nobody with her. Mathilda had never felt threatened or in fear of her life at any time since the war started. Despite working around men and women built for violence, she had never feared an attack on her person. That lack of fear had her keep her guard down. Had she been with someone else, say, Alfred, or her cousin, or even Klaas, they would have sensed something was amiss. They were soldiers, tuned to their surroundings and used to keeping their guard up even in their sleep. And, well, had there been someone of fighting ability with her, nobody would have dared to make a move.

So the attack took place. However, when everything has been said and done, it could have been much worse. The people sent against her didn't want to take her life. And they weren't soldiers.

Mathilda left the tent with the hood of her cloak over her head in meagre protection against the pouring rain. The smell of wet earth assaulted her nostrils as soon as she set foot outside. The damp muddy ground soaked her boots almost as rapidly as the rain soaked her clothes. She kept her head down out of habit, resisting the urge to run towards her tent. With such an uneven ground, it would be easy to twist an ankle or even slip and hurt her pride. She knew she'd be soaked to the bone when she reached her tent, but better soaked and clean than soaked and muddy. She was hungry and tired. Despite this, she felt some sort of pride at a job well done. A woman had been brought in earlier on with her leg nearly severed in half after falling from the roof of the stables and landing on a pitchfork. Mathilda and Michelle had to work on the woman's leg for almost an hour before managing to staunch the bleeding. Running about to fetch bandages and linen, applying pressure to stop the bleeding and making make-shifts tourniquets was hard painful work. Nonetheless, they had managed to save the woman's limb for the moment. Only time would tell if she overcame infection and shock.

A hand grabbed her from behind as she was making her way around the large tent, on the narrow path between the canvas wall and the wooden wall of the palisade. An arm wrapped around her neck while a gloved hand clapped over her mouth. Her eyes flew wide, and her first instinct was to try biting at the hand crushing her lips against her teeth. She bit uselessly into thick leather. Despite her best judgement, she tried to scream next, but much to the same result. The arms holding her pulled her back, away from the tent and towards the most shadowy part of the palisade. She bucked and twisted, her feet kicking. Her heels dug into the mire. As soon as she tried to elbow her assailant, the person grabbed her around the chest, keeping her arms pinned to her side. Thoughts crashed about in her head as she tried to force herself to remain calm. The arm around her chest seemed to crush her ribs and it was hard to draw in a breath with the hand on her mouth. She knew she had to calm down or risk passing out. But how could someone be calm while being manhandled in such a way?!

_Be calm, damn you!_ She admonished herself silently. _Soldiers don't panic when they're attacked! They keep their calm, and that's why they remain alive!_

She ignored the fact that she was no soldier. Calm was important in her work, too, after all. It would be impossible to treat a patient if she were unable to keep her cool. She wasn't prone to panic at all. Damn, if only she could take in a full breath!

Her assailant dragged her, keeping close to the palisade to be in shadows. Mathilda's eyes, wildly darting about, locked on the wooden stakes planted deeply in the ground. It was within touching distance. She twisted her body, bent her knees and pushed her feet as hard as she could against the palisade. The man holding her (she was sure it was a man), surprised, tried to keep his balance, but unable to catch himself anywhere due to his arms being full of struggling Mathilda, he leaned backward precariously until he fell. They fell back on the soft wet mud. The arms loosened their grip about Mathilda, and she was able to wriggle free. Scrambling on hands and knees, she tried to claw her way towards safety. Winded as he might be, the man still had enough presence of mind to grab at her skirts to pull her back. She slipped and got a mouthful of dirt for her troubles. She wanted to scream, but couldn't get enough air into her lungs to do so. All she could do was gasp and sob as she was pulled backward. She turned on her side and kicked at the man's head. He was wearing a hood so she never got a good look of his face. Her blow connected, but not hard enough to cause any real harm. As she aimed to get a better kick, someone grabbed the hood of her cloak and forcefully hauled her to her feet.

For a second, Mathilda felt certain someone had come to her rescue. The feeling lasted until the newcomer hit her squarely across the face. The open-handed blow knocked her back to the ground. Blood welled inside her mouth from a slip lip. Her eyes watered further. Another blow came, this time to the side of the head. The person hitting her did pull his blows, but to someone who had never been hit in all of her life, Mathilda felt like she was being beaten by a battering ram. She raised her arms in self-defence, unable to see past the curtain of tears blurring her vision. A kick to the shoulder sent her sprawling to the mud again. This time, opened-handed blows turned to kick. Her ribs, her stomach, her legs, even her face, the hard boot didn't miss much. By then she could no longer take a breath. Every part of her body screamed in agony. She could only manage small cries of pain, unable to shout for help or even beg for mercy. What was going on? Why was she being attacked? Nobody had ever dared raise a hand to her before. The camp was usually a safe place for her. Who were these people to be brave enough to attack her, the daughter of the most powerful man on earth?

The rain of blows continued until the edge of her vision blackened. By then, Mathilda could hardly put up a fight. Her body felt like one huge throbbing pain. She knew bones must be broken, but she couldn't begin to think which ones of them. Her two tormentors were breathing harshly, exhausted after venting their anger on her. They didn't exchange any words that she could hear, but for a few seconds, they seemed to be talking to each other. She wondered how long it would take before she felt the cold blade of a knife slide between her ribs or across her neck. Somehow, death seemed like a welcomed thought. Everything hurt so much. After inhaling mud and water, she couldn't stop coughing and groaning. How was it nobody heard them? They were making such a racket.

She must have passed out for a few seconds, because she jerked back to awareness when she felt a cold hand on her leg. Her wheezing stopped and her eyes opened wide. She looked down her body to see one of the hooded man pull up her wet skirts to expose her naked bruised legs. A thought immediately sprung to her mind: _they're going to rape me._ Cold panic froze her into place. It was as if her muscles and joints locked, forbidding her to move. Her breath was coming in short terrified gasps and she shivered uncontrollably. She couldn't even cry. Her eyes remained treacherously opened, as if she were supposed to watch everything. Rape was a common weapon of war, but something the emperor had never really used. He was a warrior, he didn't see the point of abusing defenseless women. While he didn't exactly condone the act, he was quite displeased when it was brought to his attention, so most soldiers behaved themselves in that matter. If they had to rape women (or men), they used captured enemies instead and slit their throat afterwards. Mathilda couldn't recall ever hearing a woman or man being raped on this camp, but she suddenly realised it meant nothing. It wasn't as if a raped victim would brag about such a thing. It wasn't because she never had to deal with such an unlucky person personally that it never happened. How naïve had she been!

Nonetheless, she wouldn't let it happen to herself. Fear and desperation gave her strength; instead of lying there paralyzed, she kicked at the man's face. The sole of her boot caught him square in the nose. The bastard cried in pain as blood erupted from his broken nose. Her skirts pooled around her waist, not caring about her underwear showing, Mathilda made a run for it. She actually managed to get on her knees and was about to get a foot under herself to push herself up when the second man jumped on her. This time, there was no pulling of blows. He grabbed a fistful of her hair to bang her forehead against the palisade until she, mercifully, fainted.

* * *

><p>At first, there was darkness. Thick enveloping darkness that coddled her gently. She was aware of little beside the comfort it provided. It was like lying in a comfortable bed, wrapped in thick blankets on a cold morning. She smiled. She felt like she was floating. She didn't feel her body. She didn't feel the brush of clothes against her skin or the expanding muscles in her chest as she breathed. She didn't feel cold or warmth on her face. She didn't feel the beating of her heart against her ribs. This was thick lack of feeling that sent a small alarm through her mind. Yet, it was nothing that terrible. She was probably simply near sleep, drifting away from consciousness into the odd world of dreams. It would be morning soon enough, and she'd have to get up and go on about her day.<p>

For long moments, she basked in the absence of everything. Then, annoyingly, the alarm bell in her mind seemed to grow louder. It trigged something inside her and, suddenly, she was again aware of her body. The warmth that had surrounded her seconds ago was dissipated like a small fire under the assaults of the wind. Pain blossomed without warning, tearing a groan from her throat. Her first instinct was to reach for the painful part of her body – her stomach –, but her arms and hands felt heavy like lead. Her whole body felt heavy, as if some weight was crushing it down. She whimpered, realising that even breathing hurt. There was something wrong with her ribcage, preventing it from expanding enough to draw in a full breath. Panic tightened her throat and left her mouth dry.

Then, she felt a hand on her shoulder. As if the touch triggered something, memories of the attack behind the medical tent rushed back. Her eyes opened wide and she sat bolt upright with a scream of terror. Even as wave after wave of assaulted her, she couldn't force her body to lie back down.

All around her were familiar surroundings. She recognized the bed she sat on; her own. The blankets tangled around her legs were her own, even though the few spots of dried blood were a novelty. The brazier, the small escritoire, the armoire, the canvas, the rugs. Everything was hers.

Before she could take everything in, she realized there were people at her bedside. Eyes wide and slightly unfocused, it took Mathilda a couple of seconds to recognize the faces. Alfred, her beloved big brother, was leaning over her, one knee resting on the mattress to be as close as possible. His blue eyes were bright and his face horribly pale. His hair was in disarray, as if he had just woken up after a night of tossing and turning. Beside him was their cousin, Dan. The poor boy didn't look much better. His eyes were red as if he had been crying, and he wouldn't stop sniffling and wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Behind them, as at a respectful distance, were Michelle and Klaas. Both looked relieved to see her.

"You should lie down," Alfred said very gently. His voice sounded rough. "You're quite battered."

As if his words were some kind of trigger, Mathilda felt the myriad bruises on her body. They thrummed in time with her heartbeat, but they didn't feel as painful as they ought. This fact, coupled with the odd taste in her mouth, convinced her that she must have been given poppy juice.

"I know…" was all she managed to croak. Her throat felt so tight and dry. "Water, Alfred, please."

Alfred didn't move, and it was Dan who ran for the pitcher of water as if the tent were on fire. He hurriedly poured water into a cup and gave it to her, his eyes huge with fear. Mathilda took the cup from him, but her hands were shaking too much that she almost dropped it on her lap. Thankfully, Dan was fast enough to steady her hands. He helped her take a few sips of the mercifully cool liquid. The papery feeling in her throat disappeared, but it still felt raw. There was pain inside her mouth, woken anew by the act of drinking. She did her best not wince as she handed the cup back to her cousin.

"What happened?" Alfred finally asked.

At his question, both Michelle and Klaas took a few steps closer to listen. Mathilda hesitated, fiddling with a loose thread on the quilt. It wasn't that she didn't remember. The images of what had happened beside the medical tent were fresh in her mind despite the drug given to her. She just didn't know how to tell. To be honest, she wasn't even sure she wanted to tell. Everything was still so raw, she knew only pain would come from poking at this again. Yet she knew that nobody here would accept a refusal. Part of her knew that she _had_ to tell everything, if only to alleviate her friends' fears. She closed her eyes and took a small breath.

"I'm not so sure," Mathilda began honestly. As she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the pattern of her quilt. "I was leaving the medical tent and suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind. A hand clamped over my mouth so I couldn't scream. I was dragged into the shadows, but managed to free myself. I got a beating afterwards." She frowned, trying to remember details and what she had felt at that moment. "I don't think these people wanted to kill me."

"Didn't want to kill you?!" Michelle exclaimed, all professionalism forgotten. "Mathilda, they smashed your head against the palisade until you passed out! We weren't even sure that you would wake up! We have no idea of the damages done to your brain!"

Out of reflex, Mathilda's hand rose to her forehead. A tight bandage had been wrapped around her head. She had no idea of the kind of bruise she had sustained. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

She felt oddly detached when she said, "Michelle, if they wanted to kill me, I'd certainly be dead. I didn't put up much of a fight."

Alfred scoffed at that. "Are you certain of that? When we brought you back, there was blood under your nail and a _tooth_ was stuck on the sole of your boot. Whoever attacked you got a mouthful of broken teeth for their trouble. You fought back long enough for Klaas to intervene."

A bit surprised at that, Mathilda looked up at Klaas, who hadn't said a word since she had emerged from her drugged sleep. The Dutchman had a difficult expression to read, but his face was pale and his jaw set.

Realising that Klaas wouldn't tell his part of the story, Alfred sighed and continued, "He thought you were late returning, so he went to fetch you. He heard the sounds of scuffle. When he found you, you were unconscious in the mud, and your attackers had just run away. Instead of running after them, he did the right thing and brought you back here. He got Michelle, because he knows she's your friend."

Somehow, Mathilda hadn't expected rescued. She had expected to lie there in the mud until she either died of exposure or managed to crawl her way back to her tent. It had been a ridiculous thought. Of course someone would have come looking for her if she didn't come back. Yet knowing something and being proved something were two very different things. Klaas had been _worried_ enough to look for her. He simply could have considered her lateness as forgetfulness of the time, or an abundance of new patients requiring her attention. Instead, he had decided to come for her. Mathilda was oddly touched by this. Her eyes burned suddenly and her chest felt uncomfortably tight. There were gasps of concern from all around her as she painfully managed to get up. She didn't give anyone time to stop her. As soon as she was within reach, she wrapped her arms around Klaas and hugged him fiercely to her. He was strong and solid and real and _safe_. The fear that had grasped her for the last hours eased just a tiny bit, enough to allow tears to flow down her cheeks. All of a sudden, she was sobbing.

Klaas stood still, too shocked to even think of reacting. Eyes wide, he looked at the three onlookers who appeared as surprised as he did. The healer, Michelle, looked close to tears herself. Dan was sniffling, looking more like a child than a soldier. Even Alfred looked slightly moved. Discomforted by the whole thing, Klaas patted Mathilda's shoulder awkwardly. Anybody watching would never have suspected that the man had two little sisters who had clung to him for years.

"Mathilda, you have to rest," Michelle admonished gently. "You'll aggravate your wounds if you move about like that."

As if realising what she was doing was quite improper, Mathilda let go of Klaas and sat back on her bed. Her face was red and blotchy from the tears. Embarrassed, she wiped at her cheeks.

"My wounds?" Mathilda asked of her friend, trying to sound more like a healer rather than a scared patient.

"Not life threatening. You have two broken ribs that I'm sure of. There is a nasty gash on your forehead, and more scratches than I can count all over your body. You'll be black and blue come morning. I'm quite sure you've pulled some muscles in your legs however, but it's nothing some rest won't fix..."

The way she trailed off, Mathilda knew Michelle wasn't telling the whole truth. She closed her eyes against the pain and the memories. She _couldn't_ ask. Not in front of Alfred and the others. Even if they already knew, she couldn't bring herself to ask. Her memories of this particular moment were not as vivid as those before, but she felt they were too precise to be anything but the truth. Yet she wanted to confirmation. She was sure of nothing. She hurt everywhere, so it was hard to feel for one particular pain amongst the others.

"I'm sorry…" Michelle said sorrowfully. "I've given you parsley tea, just to be on the safe side." With a small wave of her hand, she gestured towards the bedside table where a pot of tea had been laid. "There is more in the teapot."

As if she had been punched in the guts anew, Mathilda doubled over and threw up on the carpet.


	13. For you I Have to Risk it All

So! I'm sorry about last chapter! People seemed quite shocked by what happened to Mathilda. I must admit I was a bit shocked myself by what I made her go through. It is all for her growth, I promise. I hope this chapter makes things better. Thank you so much for your never-ending support!

Happy holidays and Happy New Year! :)

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><p><strong>For you, I Have to Risk it All<strong>

Only two candles had been lit. She didn't think she'd be able to fall asleep in complete darkness. Or alone. She had felt wretched and cowardly for asking Alfred to stay, but it was the only way she'd manage to get some rest. Alfred sat beside her bed, slouching in the padded chair. His eyes were closed, but she knew he wasn't sleeping. A wave of affection for the brash young man filled her chest, making her forget for a few seconds her woes. She was so grateful of him, of his trust of her, of his constant confidence in her. Many men would have turned away from a disgraced sister, but not Alfred. Alfred was too noble for such a thing. He didn't shout at her or tell her she had asked for it by walking around the camp on her own. He never once acted as if her disgrace shamed him. No, instead he swore he'd stand by her no matter what happened. Dear Alfred, his sweet understanding made the whole ordeal just a tiny bit more bearable.

Of course, the emperor had to be told of what had happened. Dan had been the unlucky one with the mission of summoning him to Mathilda's tent. He had come with his dozen of bodyguards, but with one look at his daughter's face, had ordered his men to wait outside. Alfred and Dan had stood by her, silently siding with her against whatever the emperor would say. Mathilda had explained the situation calmly, with detachment. It had felt as if her body had acted of its own, and she had watched from somewhere near the roof of the tent. She had seen every ripple of expressions on her father's face. His political mask had barely slipped, but it had been enough for her to spot something akin to pity. She hadn't expected it. She had expected hate or anger or disappointment. But nothing like pity. It had been a surprise that her father could feel pity. That new emotion had nearly been her undoing. Her lips had trembled and her eyes had burned with unshed tears, but she had managed to finish her story without crying. She knew her skin had been livid, a stark contrast with the blooming bruises and red scratches. She had been disheveled and still dirty from trampling around in the mud.

In the end, the emperor hadn't been angry at her. He'd been furious at the men hurting her and swore to find them whatever the cost. Mathilda had been touched by his concern. That was, until he had decreed that the war camp was too dangerous for her. For one second, she had hoped it meant she'd be allowed to go home. To rest, to heal, to mourn. But no. Despite everything, he still had plans for her. And so, she was to leave the camp to move to Amsterdam with her future husband in three days. She'd been too tired and heartsick to even think of protesting.

Now, thinking back, Mathilda almost felt sorry for lying to her father. He had looked so distraught by the news. Well, to be honest, at the time she hadn't been lying. She'd been lied to first, and she was only repeating what she had believed to be the truth. After her father had left the tent to make preparations for her hasty departure, Michelle had admitted that she hadn't been fully honest in her report of the princess' injuries. Most of it had been true, except for the part mentioning the parsley tea. Mathilda hadn't been given any such tea because she hadn't needed it. After hearing the confession, Mathilda hadn't known how to react. A part of her had been so relieved that she had wanted to cry. The other part had been genuinely hurt at the lie. Michelle had explained that Alfred had wished for the lie to be told, so when Mathilda retold the incident to the emperor, she would appear genuine. He knew she had a hard time being dishonest, especially to their father who had a knack of learning the truth. Furthermore, Alfred had expected the emperor to cancel the wedding between Mathilda and the Dutch counsellor. Sadly, her father hadn't even considered cancelling it. He simply said that Mathilda certainly wouldn't be the first woman to go to her husband's bed not a virgin. The comment had stung a bit, but it hadn't been said unkindly.

And so, despite having gotten the worst beating of her life, Mathilda didn't feel so bad. Oh, everything hurt. Even _blinking_ hurt, but it could have been much worse. She wasn't really angry at Alfred or Michelle for the lie. She understood it had been necessary. Maybe when she felt better, she'd have the necessary strength to be outraged. But in the grand scheme of things, it appeared that this beating was quite a blessing in disguise. She was being sent to Amsterdam, a city Alfred, Dan, and she had planned on reaching as soon as possible. Being sent first, Mathilda would have a chance to assess the situation of the newly appointed usurper king. Did he have many followers? What did the people think about him? What did the army think of him? What was his grasp on the treasury and the soldiers? Was Amsterdam really a safe haven for the English army? Would there be food enough for everybody for the long months of winter? Mathilda had to learn everything she could as subtly as possible. She wasn't sure how she felt about the whole thing. A small part of her she hadn't known existed was thrilled by the thought of doing something so _tangible_. She had been in the war, but she had never been _part of_ the war. All she saw of it were the aftermath, when the soldiers with broken bodies were brought to her for salvaging. She had been content with it, until now. She wanted it all to end. She wanted to be a healer who gave herbs to women who wanted children and to men who had bad digestion. She no longer wanted to sew wounds shut and set bones and cut limbs. She no longer wanted to fear for her family. She wanted to be able to settle down and have children.

On the chair beside the bed, Alfred grunted in his sleep. He didn't look much comfortable, sleeping upright. Mathilda felt a bit bad for asking him to stay, but there was no way she'd feel safe without his presence close. She tugged the sheets and duvet up to her chin and rolled on her side, eyes wide open. She was tired, but the shock of the attack was keeping her awake. Her ribs hurt no matter what position she lay in. The mattress felt too hard, the pillow too soft. Her nightclothes kept tangling around her limbs. Her feet were cold. She didn't want to lie there, tossing and turning and feeling chocked up by all her pent up emotions. By God, she had never felt so restless and confused in all her life.

Finally, after another hour of staring angrily at the dark canvas over her head, Mathilda decided to get up. Rest was the thing she needed to heal, but rolling about in her bed was anything but restful. Being careful not to wake her brother up, she slipped on her boots and wrapped a thick cloak over her shoulders. Alfred didn't even twitch, probably too exhausted to even notice her moving about. It made her smile. There was a saying she had heard that soldiers were able of sleeping with their eyes open. Alfred had said it wasn't true, of course, but that it meant that soldiers were never truly deeply asleep. They learnt to keep their consciousness alert even in sleep. Mathilda didn't doubt it. If it meant soldiers were always ready for action, it also meant they rarely got any good rest however. Thankfully, despite the discomfort of the chair, Alfred seemed sound asleep. It would do him good to get a proper night of shuteye.

On her tiptoes, Mathilda left her tent. She had no intention of wandering about the camp. She wouldn't go as far as saying that she no longer felt safe here, but the memories of the attack were still too fresh for her to walk on her own at night. The rain had thankfully stopped for the moment, but promised to come back in a matter of time. The sky was dark with black clouds being pushed along by a strong wind. The air smelt of damp earth and rain and upcoming cold weather. Standing by the door of the tent, Mathilda took in a deep, satisfying breath, ignoring the pain in her ribs. In a matter of days, she'd have a real home, with real furniture and a real bed to sleep in. She wondered if she'd miss the easy life of the camp, where she was allowed to mostly do as she pleased. Probably. She hadn't really known the true constraints of living in a real city for years.

When she heard footsteps coming towards her, she said, "Klaas, please, it really is not a good time to be lurking around me."

It didn't take someone with a perfect night vision to recognize the towering figure walking in her direction. She had grown used to the sound of his footsteps. At first, before he got closer to the torch planted by the door of her tent, only the tiny glowing embers of his cigarette were visible. As soon as he stepped into the circle of reddish light, he narrowed his eyes at her.

"What the hell are you doing out here in the middle of the night? I thought your brother was supposed to watch over you."

Despite the tiredness and restlessness, Mathilda found a smile for the grumpy man. "I can't sleep. I thought a bit of fresh air would help calm me down."

Klaas frowned in disproval. "Fine, but you should have asked your brother to go with you. You, of all people, know this place isn't safe."

She sighed. "I doubt I would be attacked so close of my own tent. And anyway, one shout and Alfred will come rushing after me." She nodded to the left, where the vague dark shapes of other tents stood. "And my father placed more soldiers around." She looked up at him, eyebrows up. "Where were you, anyway? I thought you'd come back after my father left."

Fearing that the emperor might blame Mathilda's bodyguard for not keeping her safe, Klaas had been asked to leave the tent when her father came to talk to her. He hadn't looked very pleased to be kicked out in the rain, but he hadn't complained. And it was still dangerous for him to be around. Jakob Rijnder, the man who had usurped his throne, was still a guest of the emperor. He had come with a small retinue of servants and guards, and there was no certainty that one of them might not be walking the camp at any given time. It wouldn't do for Klaas to come face to face with someone who might recognize him.

"I was with your annoying, immature cousin." He ignored her insulted look. "We went back to the place where you've been attacked. We thought we might find some clues as to who did this. There wasn't much to be honest. Just some blood and torn cloth in the mud. The best way of finding the bastards is probably to have every man of this camp checked for a broken nose and broken teeth. Who knows, he might just turn up in the medical tent."

Mathilda crossed her arms over her aching ribs. "That would be too good to be true. Please, don't lose sleep over this, Klaas. I don't really mind if we don't find them."

Klaas looked shocked at that. "What?! You don't want them to be brought to justice?!"

"It's not that. I just don't want to be constantly reminded of the attack. And, honestly, what good would it do? It wouldn't stop my ribs from hurting."

The expression on the older man's face clearly showed that he didn't understand her reasoning. Mathilda tried to think of a better way to phrase her thoughts, without much success. It wasn't that she wasn't angry at what had happened. Anybody would be angry at having be so thoroughly terrified. She was angry at the men for shattering her ideas that, somehow, she was above pain and above fear. All her life, people had always made sure she wouldn't be scared or hurt. Her nannies, then her brother, then her fellow healers. They had been hurt and scared numerous of times, but always, they made sure that _she_ was fine. She had never really noticed before, but after the happenstance of the evening, she realised that she had been living in a cocoon of protection. It was probably why she had always refused when Alfred or Dan had offered to teach her some self-defence, or why she had never considered taking a bodyguard with her. She was angry at the loss of her illusions. Or something like that. Shattering her bones had been the only way to shatter her small world of illusions. And the latter hurt far worse than the former.

But this wasn't the kind of thing she easily could explain to someone like Klaas. Klaas, or Alfred, or Dan, were hard men. Not cruel, not evil, but they had been hardened by the harshness of their lives. Some could even say they had grown jaded. They tended to expect the worst of everybody, and therefore, were never surprised. She hadn't understood their way of thinking before. And she wouldn't go as far as saying that she understood everything now. She refused to believe that every human being was, at his or her core, bad. There were still good people. But, as the saying went, it takes good people to wage wars. Doing what was needed to survive didn't make someone a bad person. Mathilda had realised, simply, that she had been like a real princess; sheltered, protected, weak. Somehow, it was what angered her the most. And she was almost ashamed of how she had looked down on others. She remembered how, on many occasions, she had looked down her nose on people who acted in certain ways in order to survive. Prostitutes amongst the camp followers, women choosing abortion rather than raising their children in poverty, men working many shifts rather than going home to nothing, soldiers taking to the bottle to forget the horrors witnessed in battle. In an absent-minded way, she had lorded over them all because she considered herself so straight, so noble. She now understood why Klaas had said that she was too weak to survive this war. He wasn't wrong. On her own, she would have reverted to compost years ago.

"You're weird," Klaas said with a frown. He was looking her up and down, as if she had somehow altered in appearance in the last hours. "You're different. Are you okay?"

"Truth be told, I feel better than I have in years."

The frown of puzzlement didn't ease. Then, bold as you please, Klaas reached out his hand and rested his palm on Mathilda's bandaged forehead. Her eyes widened and her face heated.

"You don't feel like you have a fever."

"I don't! As I said, I feel perfectly fine. I'm a healer. Trust me, I know what I'm doing."

"I've heard healers are the worst kind of patients. I wouldn't be surprised if you were in pain and didn't say anything about it."

"Of course I'm in pain," Mathilda muttered with an exasperated sigh. Why were her cheeks so warm all of a sudden? "It is bearable. I swear I'll live."

Klaas made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat and buried his hands deep inside the pockets of his jacket. Grey ash fell from the tip of his cigarette to flutter away in the bracing wind. He was looking to the side, shoulders tensed as if he were expecting a blow. As if tired of it, he spat his cigarette to the mud and grounded his foot on it. Mathilda stared at the grumpy, throne-less king as the flames of the torch danced across his angular face. Her heart skipped a beat before starting on a faster tempo. It kept slamming against her aching ribs, but the pain was almost… sweet. She might have been a sheltered princess, but she had read enough romance novels and poems to know what that feeling growing inside her stomach meant. She hurriedly turned her head to the side, forcing her eyes to focus on the churned mud on the ground. But they were treacherous and they found their way back to Klaas. Klaas and she weren't standing terribly close. Nothing that was improper, of course; Mathilda knew what kind of distance to keep with men. They had stood closer before, close enough to feel body heat, but back then, there hadn't been that fluttering feeling inside her chest. She wasn't sure if her feet moved before she thought about what to do, or if she had made her mind up a while ago. She wasn't even certain if she were thinking at all.

With one outstretched hand, she pushed the torch over. The ground was so soft it offered no resistance. The wooden shaft fell soundlessly and the flames were extinguished in seconds. As soon as the closest light source had disappeared, Mathilda grabbed a fistful of Klaas' jacket, pulled him to her and pressed her lips against his. Awkward wasn't a strong enough word to describe the situation. He'd frozen up when she'd pushed the torch. And she had never kissed anybody before, so she wasn't sure how to place her lips or move her mouth. And he wasn't exactly leaning in, which forced her to raise herself to her tiptoes. And he wasn't responding.

Realising with a rush of horror what she was doing, Mathilda stepped back hurriedly. She was panting as if she had run a mile and her ribs screamed in agony. Her face must be as red as a tomato! God, she just wanted the ground to swallow her up whole. What madness had just seized her?! Tired of being good was one thing, but forcing a kiss on an unsuspecting man was another one completely.

"I am so very, very sorry!" Mathilda exclaimed in a hurry. "Please, forgive me! I have no idea why I did that!"

There wasn't much light to be had, so it was impossible to see Klaas' face. The sound of rustling clothes indicated that he was shifting a little. He exhaled loudly.

"That's fine. Better a surprise kiss than a surprise punch, I guess."

Mathilda wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry at the levity of his tone. Coming from someone usually so sarcastic and direct, she guessed such a comment meant he wasn't angry at her.

"Nonetheless, I apologize."

"Oh, stop it. No need to apologize for every impulse you have. It's probably the first time you've done something by impulse, anyway."

It stung. "No, it's not the first time. Saving you from that pile of bodies was an impulse too," she snapped.

"An impulse, or your need to feel good about saving someone?"

"You're an arse! I wonder why I bother with you! I hate you!"

"Then why did you kiss me?"

This time, the impulse was more to slap him rather than kiss him again. She couldn't tell in the dark, but she was certain he had a smug grin on his stupid face. She opened her mouth to reply, but there wasn't much she could say to that. So they remained silent for a few moments. Mathilda wanted to go back inside, but she felt as if she'd be losing ground if she did. Damn that pride of hers.

There was the squelching sound of boots in the mud, and suddenly, Mathilda felt that Klaas was standing much closer to her than before. She could feel his body heat despite their respective layers of clothes. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes widened. Despite the lack of proper light, he leaned so close over her that she could see his face almost perfectly. She took a step back out of surprise, but felt the canvas of her tent behind her shoulders. All the while, her heart beat an erratic tempo inside her chest and her breath had caught inside her throat. Her mouth felt dry and her face heated up again. Klaas leaned in further, so close that their noses were almost touching. He had one arm extended over her shoulder, the hand probably resting against the wooden frame that held the canvas of the tent up.

"When you're married to Jakob and you sleep with him in _my_ bed, in _my_ castle, will you be thinking of me? Is that me you'll picture in the dark with you so you won't feel too wretched to be married to such a spineless coward? Will you raise his children, wondering how our children would look like? Will you imagine it's me you're saying yes to in front of the altar? Will you wonder what kind of king I would have been if you had ruled beside me?"

Klaas had spoken in such a low voice that Mathilda had to strain to hear him over the pounding of the blood in her ears. Surely, she would wake up now. This had to be a dream brought on by the poppy juice she'd been given. There was no way she would have dared kiss Klaas, and there was no chance Klaas was the one saying such things to her. Yet the heat she felt throughout her whole body and the thrumming of her blood appeared real enough. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She had to keep her fingers clasped tightly behind her back so she didn't reach out. Reach out for what, exactly? To push Klaas back, or to pull him in? Or simply to assess if he were really there and wasn't merely the result of her drugged mind? Her breath came out in a small gasp. If this were a dream, she wouldn't be feeling so awkward, wouldn't she? She'd be confident and brave and bold. And would Klaas be torturing her so, in a dream? But it felt real, and if it were real, it meant she had to do something. She couldn't simply stand there like a halfwit, gaping at the older man. So many things could go wrong from here. In her mind, she clearly saw the train wreck in waiting. However, maybe there was a small chance that things wouldn't go wrong. How many people kissed in the dark and went on with their life afterwards? It could later on be blamed on a spur of the moment, on the poppy juice, on the dark cold night, on almost anything.

Mathilda decided she wanted to bet on the possible good that might come of it. And so, closing off her mind so her thoughts would stop swirling, she unclasped her hands and rested them on Klaas' chest. She didn't rush to kiss him again. Despite the shyness and slight embarrassment, she didn't want to rush this. He had been right, the bastard. If, by a bad turn of fortune, she really had to marry Jakob, it would be of Klaas she'd be thinking of. There was no doubt in her mind about it. So she rested her hands on his chest, feeling the strength of the muscles and warmth seeping through his clothes into her chilled fingers. She didn't avert her eyes as would be proper. She stared at him, making sure to take note of his features so she could remember them. She knew he didn't love her. And even though it hurt a bit, she could read some kind of respect and admiration in his hazel eyes, and that was enough for the moment. Klaas was a man of the world, how could he be expected to fall for a sheltered little princess in a handful of days? Maybe Mathilda didn't really love him either. Maybe it was simply the allure of having a male friend outside of her family relatives. Maybe she was attracted to him because he was the complete opposite of her; strong and willful and direct. Or maybe she was infatuated because his presence here was dangerous and it was exciting to be doing something behind her father's back.

Whatever the reason, when she kissed him, he kissed back. His lips against hers were almost enough to stop her heart from beating. His gloved hands were in her tangled hair and his tongue down her throat and his body was so close to hers she could feel his heartbeat. She had no idea what to do with her own hands, so she went for his hair too, shoving her fingers into silky soft strands of light brown. His mouth went from her mouth to her cheek, to her bandaged forehead, to her neck, and when it brushed against her ear, she clearly heard when he asked if they should kick Alfred out of her tent. Mathilda wondered if she might faint simply because of the tone of his voice. It was only thanks to his hand on the small of her back that she didn't crumple to the ground. Her knees had turn to jelly. She nodded at his question, not even thinking about the consequences. She'd deal with them later. She was so tired of always thinking ahead. For once, she wanted to live in the moment. Maybe it would be her last chance to do so.

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><p>AN: It is important for me to say that, being asexual, I've never really understood sexual attraction. I'm sorry if the way I pictured it is unrealistic.


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